


Cutting Edge

by sailingthroughemotion



Category: Actor RPF, Zemfira (Musician) RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Ice Skating, The Cutting Edge (1992) AU, more than likely kinda OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingthroughemotion/pseuds/sailingthroughemotion
Summary: Stuck-up figure skating whiz Zemfira Ramazanova is denied a gold medal at the 2010 Olympics after a fall. As Zemfira drives off partner after partner, her coach, Maxim, must quickly find her a new one in order to be ready for the next Olympics. Enter former Olympic hockey player Renata Litvinova, who briefly encountered Zemfira years before. Reluctantly teaming up, Zemfira and Renata's icy rapport begins to thaw, resulting in a chemistry both in and out of the rink. << Russian version can be found on my Ficbook! >>
Relationships: Renata Litviniova/Zemfira (Musician)
Kudos: 1





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the ever lovely [SpiteOrSmite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiteOrSmite) <3

Practically blinding sunlight filtered through the large window of the athlete dorms, washing two sleeping forms in a warm, morning glow. One of them suddenly jerked awake, mid-length brown hair plastered unceremoniously to her face. “The hell is it so bright…?” she groaned, swinging her feet to the side of the bed, trying to desperately make out the numbers on the digital clock on the nightstand. “Oh,  _ shit _ .” The other form woke up now as well, squinting at her acquaintance in confusion. “You were supposed to set the alarm for 9!”

“Alarm? Nine?” the short-haired dirty-blonde woman parroted in very broken Russian. “But I thought you said ‘no alarm’,” she muttered in French.

“God dammit and here I thought you spoke English, too, god damn you Canadians,” the other woman frantically began to pull on clothes, gathering her things - to hell with the hair and the costume, she’ll have to pull that on later… to sleep in for two hours! The day of the freestyle program! The fucking  _ Olympics _ ! “You can have my autograph later,” Zemfira briefly turned to the previous night’s accomplice. “Thanks… Anna?”

The blonde woman, now fully awake, dejectedly pulled up the covers around herself and frowned, shaking her head.

“Hannah? Sarah?” the brunette kept trying, but  _ god  _ it didn’t matter, she had to get out of here,  _ now _ — 

“Ella!” But the door had already slammed shut. 

She raced across the courtyard, the bag with skates flopping wildly on her shoulder. Everything was practically deserted, only spare local guards giving her off looks as she half-heartedly waved her identification lanyard at them. First Olympics and this is how we’re gonna do it… 

“Pair skating… started…?” she asked the security officer at the back entrance to the rink, breathless. The guard only looked at her skeptically. “Zemfira Ramazanova - representing Russia.”

“They’re cleaning the ice still,” the stout man replied, raising an eyebrow at her. “Shouldn’t you have been in there hours ago?”

“Someone should’ve reminded me of that last night,” she scoffed and continued past him as soon as he swung open the door. The musty hallways here which at this time, Zemfira would’ve definitely expected to be empty, were the complete opposite. Her head already pounded from a hangover, but that was made worse by the frantic shouting of people wheeling a stretcher through the maze.

Or at least, attempting to. Judging by the gear, clearly a hockey player, a broad-shouldered young woman was trying to sit up. “I’m fine! There’s nothing wrong with me, let me walk it off!”

Zemfira tried to squeeze past the clamor without getting elbowed or knocked against the bare walls, but got practically bowled over anyway. “Watch it, you cretins,” she shouted, straightening herself out again. “You hockey players are such animals.” She locked eyes with the woman on the stretcher who glared at her, made more menacing by the blood that poured from her temple. She was  _ not  _ going to just walk that off. 

“At least we can take a hit unlike you daisies,” she scowled, clearly sizing up that Zemfira was a figure skater, but she in turn only shook her head to clear her thoughts some. She didn’t have time to fight right now, especially not with someone on a stretcher. She continued running, cursing under her breath. 

This morning was an absolute nightmare - she hadn’t even gotten the chance to smoke, let alone warm up before going out on the ice. She  _ did  _ make it, though, much to the relief and fury of her trainer and partner. “Where the fuck have you been?” Pavel spread his arms in disbelief. “Marta was ready to go to the judges and tell them Russia’s pulling out one pair!”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” she sighed as her mother started hastily applying costume make up onto the young woman’s face - she was in desperate need of it, too, what with the ever-present dark circles under her eyes.

“You better skate like your life depends on it, Ramazanova, or god forbid…” her trainer, Marta Petrovna, waved a wrinkled finger in the young woman’s face.

“Or what?” Zemfira asked testily. “You tell that to this knucklehead who could barely lift me up yesterday in the short program.”

“I’m not doing this anymore,” Pavel turned to Marta, gesturing at Zemfira with no subtlety, despite the overbearing number of cameras everywhere. “After today that bitch can find herself another partner.”

“And she’ll be happy to be rid of you, if that’s what you think of her,” Zemfira’s father, a tall and intense man, looked sternly at the younger, and then placed a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Did you get here safely, dear? What happened?”

“Some hockey player’s getting wheeled to the ER,” Zemfira shrugged, for which her mother scolded her by digging in even harder with the hairbrush. It wasn’t a lie, technically. Not the precise reason, but not a lie. 

Zemfira forcefully pushed away all of her body aches and migraines as she stepped out onto the ice - she seemed to come alive a little as her back intuitively straightened to readjust her balance, and she proudly pointed her chin out.

If only such a change had overcome Pavel, because he stepped out after her just as infuriated as before, and Zemfira watched in mounting dread as the music swelled that this anger was going to get taken out on her, Olympic backdrop or not.

She tried her best to push that fear and frustration out of her head - he wouldn’t dare to let her down now, he wouldn’t… but before she knew it, she felt her arms collide with the scaldingly cold moisture of the ice, and then her hip, and then with a clatter, the rest of her. She could barely hear the shocked murmurs of the packed crowd over the continuous, unrelenting roar of the music, but the countless faces painted with shock and disappointment were deafening enough. 


	2. morning

The morning came again, as promised, as it did everyday, and today Renata was just as begrudging about its presence as the day before.

She hazily went through the motions of a concretely set routine - she slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, although really she had no need, because Leonid would sleep in till 9 anyway, and did stretches all the way down the hall to the bathroom. After freshening up just enough to not want to climb back into bed, it was more casual lunges and squats to the kitchen, where the stove was clicked on, and the coffee can was reached from the top of the fridge. About anytime now… 

“Oh, you’re so fascinating, being able to reach things like that,” her mother sat down at the kitchen table to look out the window at the busy street below. “What did we feed you that you got so tall?”

“I have no idea,” Renata sighed, and watched as precisely on the clock, the coffee came to a boil. She retreated to the bedroom to shake Leonid’s shoulder and tell him that ‘breakfast’ was waiting.

She then went down the hall and made an abrupt left and, sure enough, Ulyana was somewhat awake, and with a bit of coaxing, was changed into some acceptable clothes for the day. After going through the ever-tedious process of washing up (the 3 year-old was quite adamant that hair brushing wasn’t at all a necessary part of getting ready for the day), she led her daughter with her down the hall.

Back in the kitchen, Renata’s mother had started making pancakes and as fantastic as they smelled, the young woman went for the egg carton in the refrigerator instead.

As per usual - “You are going to be nothing but skin and bones if you eat like that! It’s a wonder you even carried out a kid that strong.”

“The reason I carried her out is precisely because I have a good, balanced diet,” Renata reasoned, knowing full well that it was fruitless, but hoping that her daughter would catch the commentary, and it would stick with her in the future.

And then, right when the digital clock on the microwave read quarter past nine, Leonid shuffled into the kitchen. Now was prime time to expect surprises. 

“Morning, Alice,” he greeted his mother-in-law and then gently patted his daughter on the head. “What are you two going to be doing today?”

“We’re going to go feed the birds at the park!” Ulyana announced proudly.

“Oh, yeah? What kind of birds?”

“Penguins!”

“Not penguins, honey, pigeons,” her grandmother corrected the little girl with a smile.

“But mom said you could feed penguins! Like the black and white ones from the story,” Ulyana aired on a tone of childish disappointment. Hysterics was not how anyone wanted to start the day. 

“I told her that you could take her to the zoo, mom,” Renata admitted. “She really liked that book she got from Santa last year about the skiing penguins… might be the new favorite animal for the forseeable future.”

“Getting her hooked on winter sports early, huh?” Leonid ground his teeth disapprovingly. 

“I’m not getting her hooked on anything,” Renata shook her head and proceeded to start eating her omelette straight out of the frying pan to avoid participating in this conversation any further. This was the fifth time Leonid had voiced his disapproval for anything that even smelled like hockey in the past two months; she was beginning to get tired of it. 

“Are you going to practice today?” Alice asked, catching the subject as well.

“It’s a Saturday - like always,” Renata nodded.

“You got a letter, by the way, two days ago,” Leonid chimed in.

“And why haven’t I seen it?”

“Oh, well I threw it away.” Renata froze. “I opened it by accident! The scissors slipped - anyway, it was just a rejection letter from the university regarding coaching.”

Renata’s heart sank. She knew that the “accident” was a blatant lie, but that rejection wasn’t - Leonid seemed almost proud to deliver bad news about her hobby on the regular. “What did it say?”

“That they wanted someone who was able to keep up with a fast-paced, brutish game. Don’t know why they’d say that when you’re the toughest person I think I’ve ever seen.” She knew that he was insulting her, only framing it as a compliment, but she was oddly proud of having received the remark anyway.

“I’m going,” Renata announced, tossing the frying pan into the dishwasher.

“Can I go with you?” Ulyana asked, pleading like always.

“You’re going to go to the zoo with grandma today! Didn’t you say you wanted to see some penguins?” Renata deflected, hoping that a warm smile and a reassuring stroke of the cheek would be enough of a peace offering. She didn’t want to say no - she couldn’t actually stomach the word, but knew that if she did say yes, it would be a sleepless night of fighting with Leonid, which wouldn’t be even slightly worth it, however much she may have wanted to share her beloved hobby with her daughter.

She gave it her all during practice, like always, perhaps even more than her all, purely to prove that she could absolutely keep up with a brutish game, any day. But even breathlessly exchanging high-fives on the way to the locker room didn’t feel like nearly enough, no matter how fun these matches with these women were - there was no tension, no looming end goal to be the best of the best of the country, to inspire the nation. They were just women chasing a puck around - for some not to think about how the prime days were long gone and they were about to hit fifty and for others to prove themselves at small-scale playing before a team scout inevitably scooped them up. There were two opposite banks of a wide river, and Renata often felt like she was floating face down in the middle of the water.

She returned home after a quick pass-through at the supermarket, and was surprised to hear two adult voices conversing amiably in the kitchen. She furrowed her brow, racking her brain wondering who the strange speaker was. One speaker was undoubtedly her mother, having returned and put Ulyana down for a nap, but the other one… it couldn’t be Leonid, he would not be home from work, or, well, “work”, till eight or nine in the evening, and even if he had been home, he wouldn’t be conversing so amicably, let alone intently with his mother-in-law.

“I’m home,” Renata called out quietly before making her way into the kitchen. There, sitting across from her mother, was a man about the same age, with heavy wrinkles and a rugged, unshaved jaw. He immediately shot up to his feet at her arrival and offered to shake hands. Renata adjusted all of the plastic shopping bags to hang off of one arm and awkwardly accepted the gesture. “Uh…”

“Sorry, my name is Maxim Sergeivich.”

“Sergeivich is a trainer,” Alice said smugly, knowing full well how much Renata’s face would brighten.

“Trainer? Trainer from where? I—my name is Renata Litvinova, I played for the Russian Olympic hockey team in 2010, I sustained an injury but I’m still fully capable, I practice everyday, I’m in great form, I—” Renata’s mind raced as she tried to recount her entire athletic resume. 

“Trust me, I know who you are,” Sergeivich laughed. “I’m so glad to hear you’re so eager to skate again - but I do have to tell you one thing, though… I’m a figure skating coach, not a hockey coach.”

Renata’s mouth fell open slightly. She blinked a few times, gathered herself. “Oh?” she managed out.

“I’m in search of a figure skating partner for my student - who’s on the Olympic level, I assure you, but has an… interesting character, so I am looking in obscure places to hopefully find a match.”

“Well… um, I’m honored - although, I do have to admit that my experience in figure skating is extremely limited,” Renata bit her lip. Here was an opportunity for her to  _ skate  _ professionally, sure, but was it an opportunity she wanted to jump on just because she was desperate to smell the ice? 

“We all learn, though, don’t we?” Sergeivich crossed his arms, studying her intently. “For example, I didn’t really know a single thing about hockey aside from some surface-level basics, but over the past couple of weeks, I learned enough to know that you are the best that Russia has to offer… that’s available, of course.”

Renata raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t generally prone to falling for flattery, but this was especially sweet to her ears. “Alright, I’ll try. When and where?”

“Well, if you’re not too busy, preferably today - my car’s parked under your entrance.”

“Mom?” Renata looked to her for permission. “You okay to hang with Ulya for a little longer?”

Alice, thoroughly smitten by Sergeivich, nodded her absolute approval. “I’ll tell her that you had something very exciting happen and that you’re going to be back with a grand story!”

“She’s not a moron, mom, she can figure out what a tryout or an interview is,” Renata rolled her eyes, setting the shopping bags down finally. “Thanks.” She kissed the old woman on the cheek and followed Sergeivich out the door, grabbing a hoodie and her skates off the wall on her way.

The car that Sergeivich drove was a luxuriously outfitted Volksvagen, which Renata felt almost too modest to get into. She watched with interest as the cityscape around them grew more intense and urban, the buildings taller, their neon advertisements and shop signs brighter, the streetwear more lavish. 

They stopped at the entrance of what almost seemed to be a hotel, with a valet ready to drive the car into the parking garage somewhere out of sight. “I thought we were going to be skating,” she said uneasily as they entered an elevator that, too, seemed way too fancy for anyone’s tastes in general.

“Oh, not in those,” Sergeivich chuckled at Renata’s skate bag. “There’s a pair of figure skates that’ll fit you just fine up here. But don’t worry, you will be skating.”

Renata followed him dazed, into a house that was intensely beautiful - looming ceiling, decorated with lights, paintings, enormous photographs. There was a sprawling view of the city, multitudes of finely furnished offices and rooms. At the back of one corner, there turned out to be a small, private elevator, which Sergeivich called up and beckoned for Renata to step into. A wave of cold air washed over her face once the doors opened at the bottom of the elevator’s descent. 

“A private rink,” Renata gasped. It was a little smaller than Olympic grade, but still nothing to sneeze at. It was a very clearly a  _ figure skating  _ rink, however. No fiberglass barriers stood looming on its orders with a net stretched across the top, and instead of bleachers, the walls were close and on each side that didn’t let in light from the dwindling day outside, there were enormous mirrors, as if it were a dance hall. 

“Get laced up,” Sergeivich handed her a pair of figure skates, seemingly out of nowhere. Renata looked at them with rather wild eyes but took them either way - at this point, even if this was a disaster, she wanted to at least have the bragging rights that she skated in a place like this.

“Where is this… student of yours, anyway?” she asked absend-mindedly, grimacing at how stiff the figure skates felt and how bare her feet seemed in comparison to her usual set-up. Her question was answered, however, by the sudden scrape of blades out on the ice in front of her.


	3. trial

“What the fuck is going on?” Zemfira put her hands on her hips at the sight of the blonde woman. “Didn’t you say you were going to go out to get me a partner?” She stared the woman down - startlingly beautiful rectangular face with a smaller mouth and intense, watchful silver eyes… “Hold on a second, you’re that hockey player that they were taking out on a stretcher at Vancouver.”

“Yeah, and you’re that bitch that snapped at me while blood was pouring down my face,” Renata got to her feet abruptly, rocking unsteadily with the new sensation of the figure skating blades.

“What the hell did you get me a hockey player for? Are you retiring me to coach?” Zemfira ignored her, turning to Sergeivich.

“I brought you a hockey player because you need a change of pace,” the old man explained rather calmly, not paying any mind to the heated reactions of the two women. “You always find something wrong with the men and you know exactly what to expect from each and every one of them. This here - is going to force you to go back to the basics and build yourself from the ground up for your partner, rather than expect them to keep up with you.”

“But a woman? Are you insane?” Zemfira felt her face burning red, although she didn’t know why. Was she embarrassed? By what? That maybe this coach had figured her out…? But that’s impossible, he’s been around for maybe a year at best.

“This is the only way I can think of to go about it,” he shrugged and gestured to Renata to get on the ice. “Now, come on - I want to see you move together.”

Renata obediently took off her blade guards, and then studied the metal edges carefully. “What are  _ these  _ things for?”

“Toepicks,” Zemfira answered. “So that if you try to jump, maybe you can actually lift your ass off the ice.”

Renata threw her a hostile glance, but didn’t say anything else. Zemfira smirked - this would be a very short try out, surely - this woman’s knees were already shaking. 

Sergeivich began to point and direct them as if this were just any other pair. “Litvinova, get behind Ramazanova. Put your right hand on her waist…” 

Zemfira’s jaw tensed as she felt the long, calloused fingers rest on her abdomen. She flinched at their lightness, grew restless at how alien it felt after countless mens’ hands. 

“I want you two to just try doing a few laps around the rink - figure out a position where you’re comfortable - and five, six, five six seven eight!”

Zemfira sped off without waiting but curiously, Renata seemed to be keeping up - even if her stroke was intense and frantic and her balance rocky at best. Her hand had almost entirely slipped from the other’s abdomen and kept slipping and slipping until… a flurry of surprised exclamations and the chipping sounds of ice, and Renata was sprawled out. “Toepicks,” Zemfira reminded over her shoulder, not even slowing her pace.

“Okay, let’s try skating hand in hand,” Sergeivich continued as if nothing had happened.

Once again Zemfira took off, her fingers loose on the other’s hand and once Renata started tipping over, once again she called out in a sing-song voice: “Toepicks!”

“This isn’t a race, Ramazanova,” Sergeivich sighed, a tiny hint of irritation somewhere in the back of his voice, but otherwise still determined. “Let’s try backwards - hand on the hip this time.”

Zemfira tried to take off, tried to push Renata into falling over backwards, but the attempts were surprisingly fruitless. The hockey player had found her beloved rocker and went into a powerful, even if somewhat overdone backward stroke that Zemfira herself had to try and keep up with. The fingers around her abdomen were firmer now, but still so light… “Don’t get cocky,” she scowled as the edges of a smile began to peer around Renata’s face.

“You should try taking your own advice some day,” Renata said matter-of-factly.

Next they tried backwards again, but this time hand in hand - again Zemfira found herself working a lot harder than expected to keep up and practically seethed, knowing how desperately she seemed to be grabbing the other woman’s fingers.   
Sergeivich seemed to have brightened once they stopped in front of him. “Alright, now - Zemfira, arms out.”

“Oh, you’re kidding me,” the young woman groaned.

“Out.”

She put them out, looking as displeased about it as possible.

“Now Renata - lift her up.”

“What?”

“Do I have to ask you twice, too?”

Zemfira tensed as she felt those same long, light fingers curl under her arms. For a second, she thought that it couldn’t be done - that this woman was taller than her by two inches at most and despite being broad shouldered, was still somewhat lean, so surely… but she felt the ice disappear from beneath her skates and watched as she towered higher and higher above Sergeivich who stood watching with the focus of a hawk. Finally, Renata’s arms were fully outstretched, and although this was an unusual strain - Zemfira could feel the woman's fingertips tightening and loosening - she held fast.

“Beautiful!” Sergeivich called. “That’ll be all.”

“Put me down,  _ now _ ,” Zemfira hissed, not ecstatic about being held like a kitten.

“As you wish,” Renata said and loosened her fingers, not even flinching as the figure skater loudly collapsed to the ice.

Zemfira glared daggers at Renata, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from blowing up then and there. The woman that towered over her had her hands on her hips and a mysterious, coy smile - with wisps of lightly curled, astonishingly blonde hair, she looked almost ethereal, and Zemfira was ready to jump out of her own skin at such a thought. She quickly got to her feet and skated over to the edge where she stepped off and practically sprinted to the elevator after tugging off her skates. Once safely solitarily confined, she pulled out a cigarette from the pack she had stashed in her skate bag and furiously dug around for a lighter. She couldn’t remember the last time she was this angry at something, felt this humiliated… and, although she wrote off the melancholy thought on just the lack of nicotine, she couldn’t remember the last time a skating partner smiled at her.


	4. discussion

“She’s a character, isn’t she?” an astonishingly tall and weathered man in a polo that seemed too pristine for just casual indoor day-to-day, greeted Renata and Sergeivich at the elevator. Somewhere within the house, a door slammed loudly. “I’m Talgat Ramazanov - Zemfira’s father. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Renata Muratovna,” and he went to shake her hand even before she had extended it all the way.

“Nice to meet you; and, yeah, you could say that,” Renata put on a polite smile. This seemed to be the start of an intimidating conversation, and she mentally willed Sergeivich not to leave her alone, but he seemed to have vanished from her side without a trace.

“Take a walk with me,” Ramazanov gestured vaguely - there was certainly enough square footage to take a hike if they wanted. “I know my daughter can be… a lot to handle. Me and her mother have tried our best to make her manageable, but let me assure you that ice skating is the happiest state in which you’ll see her.”

“Really?” Renata’s eyebrows went up. The words ‘it sure didn’t look like it’ sat ripe and heavy on her tongue, but she didn’t dare say them.

“You see, our daughter didn’t have the easiest of childhoods - we provided for her as best as we could of course, but she always found herself with a streak for the rebellious, trying to pick up all sorts of strange and unsightly street habits… when her brother passed away, she really didn’t know how to handle it.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry to hear about you son… I have a young daughter myself - I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if anything happened to her.”

“Really? You have a child?” Ramazanov was surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “You’re in immaculate shape!”

“I’m hardy, I guess… on the outside, anyway,” she nervously rubbed her temple where the rough valley of a scar could still be felt.

“But I bet you can understand that my wife and I really do want the absolute best of the best for our little Zema - she’s a brilliant girl, a talented athlete, and we want to help her succeed anyway we can… you’ve had her trial with the trainer and her already, I presume?”

Renata nodded.

“And did it go well? Sergeivich looked rather pleased with himself back there.”

“I mean… he sure seems happy with us,” Renata shrugged, not quite understanding herself what had been so satisfactory.

“You know, I’ll be completely honest - Zemfira has gone through eight different partners in the last six months - none of them pleased Sergeivich or her in the slightest, so I hope you know that even some agreement is a commendable achievement.”

Ramazanov had led her to a spacious office, chock full of bookshelves, more photographs of astonishing quality, and a sleek, modern mahogany desk, adorned by two leather chairs that were as criminally comfortable as they were oddly silent for their material. Renata tightly crossed her legs as she sat down. “I have to be honest with you, I’m just a hockey player… of course, the rink is my everything, but I don’t even know if I could ever be at such an… insane level.” She tried to pick her words carefully, gesticulating with her hands more than actually speaking, but the last part slipped out regardless. Ramazanov, thankfully, only softly chuckled.

“If Sergeivich sees potential in you, I trust his instinct that he’s found some absolute gold. You know he skated in his youth - not just watched from the sidelines all his life. He was a complete underdog, trained by a man who hadn’t ever even tried figure skating, but had the military tact and precision to construct an absolute lethal weapon on the ice. Maxim Sergeivich, was in his youth and is still now, a force to be reckoned with, in talent and determination, so even if you’re not confident now, by the time the Olympics roll around, it’ll be like you've been figure skating your whole life.”

“Olympics,” Renata shifted, trying to get the chair to squeak to voice her discomfort. “I don’t know if I’m thinking that far yet, with all due respect of course.”

“No, of course, it’s a lot to take in in one day.” Ramazanov began shuffling papers around, looking for a pen. Having fished out a finely polished fountain pen with what Renata could only assume was gold finish, he pulled out a little leatherbound book and began writing something down. “But I do want you to know that we would be honored to have you be a part of this little… family for a moment - I would do anything to ensure my daughter’s success and happiness, but I know I can’t force you to do anything…” he slyly slid over a face-down rectangle of tinted paper to her across the table.

Renata looked at him and then at the check, picking it up very carefully, as if it were alive. The numbers written there made her heart race, and she tried not to let it show, even if Ramazanov was looking at her with a bemused, knowing smile. With a sum like this, she wouldn’t have to depend on Leonid for anything anymore. Hell, she could hire a lawyer that'd win her all the rights she wanted to Ulyana and still have enough money to buy her own flat and reasonably furnish it afterwards.

“This is a monthly stipend, of course,” Ramazanov added. There wasn’t a hint of trickery or malintent in those eyes of his - he had the same bright, verdant eyes as his daughter, but these particular eyes harbored wisdom and warmth, so much so that Renata’s wasn’t sure if it were possible to trust a person you’ve just met  _ this  _ much.

“I’d be happy to join you,” she managed out, unintentionally crumpling the corners of the check with her trembling fingers.

“It’s settled then - I offer you my undivided gratitude,” Ramazanov across the table to shake her hand again.

Outside the office, as soon as they stepped out, there appeared the lithe, tense form of Zemfira herself. She looked at her father with complete disbelief. “You’re conscripting a hockey player to skate with me?” she asked, fuming.

Renata put her hand on her mouth to hide her own giddy smile. She could handle all the family and interpersonal drama the world had to offer if it meant that she was going to get paid  _ this  _ well. She almost completely drowned out Zemfira’s and Talgat’s squabble as she made her way to the exit of the wonderous house, feeling like she was maneuvering within a dream world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next week the real fun begins


	5. puck to the head

But from each dream, you have to wake up. After an intense argument with Leonid later that Sunday night, she packed to go board at the Ramazanov estate with waves of frustrated tears hitting her eyes. Why did he even care what she did? He barely paid any mind to begin with and now suddenly her deciding to try figure skating was a threat to their ‘way of life’? What ‘way of life’? She was the mother of their child - and that’s where their ‘way of life’ started and ended.

At least at the Ramazanov’s there was plenty of distraction. Distraction that mainly had to do with skating, obviously, but adjusting to her new spacious room and learning the ins and outs of the absolutely sprawling interior, was enough to have her thoughts not linger on anything they had no business lingering on for the time being.

“Same-sex skating pairs were legalized by the Wold Ice Skating Organization one year ago, much to the disappointment and outcry of many traditionalists,” Maxim Sergeivich rattled off that morning as Zemfira and Renata stood straight-backed and rigid, ‘at attention’. “Experts claim that two men or two women are unable to reach the same dynamics in their programs as a man and a woman can. Despite it being legal in the organization, and therefore recognized by the International Olympic Committee, same sex pairs have seen very little success technically, and are usually heavily discriminated against by judges, although they have proven to place at national levels.”

“None of this sounds very encouraging, Max,” Zemfira twitched impatiently.

“It is not supposed to encourage you, it is supposed to inspire you. I fully intend that the two of you are going to be raking in medals for me - I do not plan on giving either of you any leeway. I plan on making this succeed and prove that same-sex pairs are a completely viable, international level option. You two are going to be the first of your kind out there on that Olympic rink, understand?”

Renata caught Zemfira’s side glance and they locked eyes for a split second. There was one unifying thought between them, and that was: “Yeah, right.”

Training commenced without further hesitation. It was a rapid-fire crash course of the basics - the proper stroke technique, how to hold yourself upright, how to balance on one leg, how to stop in more graceful ways than showering everybody in snow.

Constantly, Renata fell. As soon as her weight tipped forward, she would catch those damned toe picks on the ice and end up slamming her hips, or if she was especially unlucky, her face, and every single time, Zemfira would skate off with a shit-eating grin, reminding Renata that yes, the picks were an ever-present concept in her life now.

Zemfira showed off a lot, actually - so much so that Renata wondered if maybe the figure skater needed a partner not to skate with, but simply to skate in front of. What was the point of it even, if not to just get on her nerves?

Uncountable hours on that rink, repping and repping those seemingly basic moves, were followed by uncountable bruises. Where Zemfira would happily go about her day sulking in her room and listening to music too loudly, or maybe running off in the evening to go do whatever it was she did until three in the morning, Renata was glued to the couch in her room - and if she did get up to do anything, she was never present without an ice pack. Returning home for the weekends, her daughter curiously asked her what kind of monsters she’d been fighting, to which Renata would reply: “a witch”, picturing Zemfira’s smug face with its insolent eyebrow piercing and the bit of bangs escaping from the miniscule ponytail. 

There was a silver lining, and that was that she could still sharpen her hockey skills whenever she felt like it without getting dirty looks from anyone in the kitchen as she packed. Although she didn’t have time to practice with the local team anymore, she did constant patterns around the private rink, playing mostly between herself and the puck. 

She had a partner  _ some _ times. Such a partnership formed when Zemfira, in her strange habits, was wrapped in a heavy jacket, curled with a book on a folding chair she’d brought down. “Curious place for light reading,” Renata said as she skidded at the side to grab a drink of water.

“The cold helps me think,” Zemfira replied, not looking up. “And it’s not light reading,” she flashed her the cover -  _ Modern Encyclopedia of Philosophical Psychology _ . 

“What are you reading psych textbooks for?” Renata chuckled a bit. “So you can find ways to hypnotize me into falling more often?”

“I have an education and interests, you know.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I happen to be an institute graduate.”

“With a degree in what?”

“I took all sorts of classes,” Zemfira deflected, hiding her face behind the book. “Can you even read with all the head injuries you’ve sustained with that bloodsport of yours?” she peeked out to warily gaze at Renata’s stick.

“Now that’s harsh,” Renata pursed her lips. “I’m more of a movie person, though.”

“Not surprised.”

“Hey! I watch art films a lot.”

“Yeah? What was the last art film you saw?”

“Well… it’s been a while, okay? I haven’t exactly had the time to go to the movies. My daughter’s only now getting to an age where she can at least pretend to be paying attention to something for longer than fifteen minutes at a time.”

“You have a daughter? Even though you do all this?”  
“Yeah, I manage.”

“So, you’re married?” Renata finally saw Zemfira’s eyes in full, without mischief or hostility - they were both somber and curious, and so, so deeply green… 

“Yes, I am,” Renata cleared her throat - she wasn’t exactly happy saying that anymore, but was she ever, really? “What, are you surprised?” she put back on the usual bantering tone.

“No, I’m sure he’s a lucky man,” Zemfira said quietly and once again hid behind the book.

Something seemed off about the young woman, but Renata couldn’t put her finger on what - maybe she was so used to being teased and hissed at that any kind of decency felt odd. “Hey, have you ever played hockey?”

“No,” Zemfira snorted, sounding almost insulted.

“Want to try? It’s kind of boring chasing the puck by myself,” Renata tried to look nonchalant, but she began to buzz with excitement. It would be her turn to show off, finally.

Zemfira looked at her quizzically for a moment, then at the equipment bag, and then back at her. “Okay, but I wear  _ my  _ skates.”

“Deal.”

As expected, the figure skater knew next to nothing about hockey, and she held the stick with nervous fingers, constantly switching around her grip. Renata didn’t give her too many pointers - the few she did offer weren’t exactly taken, and so in her delight, she raced the puck this way and that, pinning Zemfira into corners and having her give mad chase. 

They set up some makeshift goals out of whatever they found lying around, and then Zemfira insisted to keep track of the score, to which Renata giddily agreed - what a joy it would be to have the great Zemfira Ramazanova admit her own defeat.

Renata scored goal after goal without even putting in half the effort she usually did, but it was still exciting and additionally hilarious to watch Zemfira grit her teeth and mutter nonsensical curses, too out of breath from chasing and eyes too out of focus from watching the precise cuts and jolts of Renata’s stick with darting eyes.

“What’s the score? 21-0?” Renata asked, laughing as Zemfira doubled over, shoulders rising and falling with every heavy breath.

“One more,” she panted stubbornly. “One more match.”

Renata shrugged and tossed the puck down between them again. Zemfira was in a complete stupor now - at this point even her skating was beginning to look like a struggle. The round seemed to be Renata’s once again, about to be completed in record time, when, in a burst of frustration and impatience, Zemfira swung her stick at the puck as hard as her sinewy arms would let her and… 

“It wasn’t my fault,” Zemfira muttered to her trainer. “It wasn’t my fault at all, if anyone asks, if she says I—”

“Renata isn’t going to sue you,” Sergeivich rolled his eyes.

“It was her idea anyway; it was a dumb idea, clearly…” Zemfira wrapped herself tighter in her leather jacket against the merciless air-conditioning of the clinic waiting room. She took out a cigarette and was half-way to lighting it when Sergeivich slapped the lighter out of her hands.

“We’re at a goddamn medical facility, pull yourself together,” he scolded her.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I fucking need them, because we’re in a  _ medical facility _ ,” she growled, but obediently shoved the cigarette back into the pack.

Sergeivich suddenly perked and tried to meet her gaze. “You’re nervous.”

“Yeah, I’m nervous - I hate this place: there’s a bunch of clamor and everything stinks like rubbing alcohol—” 

“That’s not what I meant,” he looked at her and she furiously looked away, letting her hair fall in her face and crossing her arms. “You know why I chose her, don’t you?” Zemfira continued to stoically stare at the tiled floor.

“Who’s with Renata Muratovna?” a chipper voice called from the front. Zemfira and Sergeivich jumped to their feet and rushed over. Renata sat in a wheelchair, looking rather displeased, a bandage covering her face in such a way that she could barely see. “She can head home.”

“Are you alright? What did the doctor say?” Sergeivich asked worriedly.

“Well, I’m still skating,” Renata tore off the bandages as soon as she was sure that the nurse disappeared around the corner. There was a red and purple streak along her brow and nose that was now laden with stitches, but her face was otherwise unharmed. She nodded expectantly at Zemfira, who stood motionless with her eyes wide and brows drawn, waiting for an insult. Instead, she suddenly spun on her heel and stormed out the front entrance. “What’s with her?”

Sergeivich only sighed, and shook his head with a small smile. Renata looked in confusion from him to the quickly disappearing lean figure, and then slowly back at him.


	6. 36

Whatever competitive nature had been sparked between the two, Sergeivich was amazed at the work ethic that it consequently harbored. Now that Renata had a firm grasp on the basics, it was time to start incorporating more complex moves and building a competition-ready form out of the two athletes. This meant that off-ice training had to be incorporated as well - in many of its shapes and forms.

In the morning was jogging - getting up before the kitchen staff had come in to make breakfast, and trudging along the cold street to the bare-leafed, snowed-over park, and then back again.

Zemfira seemed surprised that Renata was a capable jogger at all, let alone one that could keep up with her and even work at a faster pace. She blamed it on those long legs, and went in so far as to pointedly dump her cigarettes in a wastebasket that first evening in front of everybody - mostly as a declaration of war to Renata. Jogging turned into running and then into racing almost immediately - they’d return to the house with indescribable headaches and red faces, adamant that one or the other had cheated somehow. Zemfira focused on getting an early start each time, but Renata would catch up and as a bonus, would stuff snow down her opponent’s collar to deter her.

The endurance that they were building was paying off; each time that Zemfira would carelessly take off with Renata next to her was no longer a desperate run to catch up in a sporadic power stroke, and in backwards movements, Zemfira had less and less to say about Renata’s ‘farmer hands’ sinking into her ribs. She actually took to complaining the other way around - “Are you even skating fast enough? Are you too much of a coward to touch me now, or what?”

Off ice time was also spent on choreography and on looking more like dancers. They drove out to a ballet studio to focus on stretching and form. Zemfira, having done this all her life, watched haughtily as Renata struggled to so much as touch her toes, but the other in turn, seeing how far the figure skater could reach, would strain her body even further, ready to tear apart muscles, but show that she was capable of much the same.

And now, as Sergeivich had them skate patterns where both of them glided on one foot, the other raised emphatically behind them, parallel to the ice, Renata no longer felt herself tipping over and shaking the whole time, and less and less she caught the angry side-eye from her partner.

And of course, no true physical training is complete without hours spent on different stations in the at-home gym - reinforcing muscle groups that would make them look pristine out in the arena. These sessions were mostly silent, interrupted mainly by labored breathing and grunts of effort that they pretended to ignore only to later mock each other behind each other’s backs.

Out on the rink, and even in the on-site dance studio, Zemfira had little else than distrustful glances to give to Renata as they practiced different lifts. One weekend when Renata was actively narrating to her daughter how she left ‘the witch’ powerless by lifting her in the air by her thighs, she got an especially disapproving glare from Leonid who hadn’t had any commentary on the subject as of late, and a biting remark: “You sound like you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

Zemfira wasn’t sure what to do with herself, seeing how intently Renata was working. With all the previous partners, she had put in minimum effort - they had barely ever matched her in caliber and now - what was this? Renata managed to get out on the ice earlier than her? The young woman watched as the blonde drilled a jump that Sergeivich had introduced her to a few days ago; she’d gotten so accustomed to thinking that hockey players were just brutes that tore up too-cold ice - but watching the leanness and grace of such a hockey player before her certainly altered her perspective a bit. Renata pushed off the ice, loudly, insistently biting its surface with the picks of her blade and landed in a damn-near flawless backward glide, although she did stumble coming back into a forward stroke… she then stopped and looked around, round silver eyes scanning the perimeter, having felt someone’s gaze on her. She noticed Zemfira eventually, and they were locked on each other for a good couple of seconds before Zemfira pointedly shook her head and marched over to the benches to lace up.

“I can never quite figure her out,” Renata said as she sat eating dinner at their intimidatingly spotless glass table. It was a table that seemed entirely too large, even if for a company of five on a good day. Zemfira’s parents had dispersed to go about their own business, and Zemfira herself had rushed off even before then, having grabbed her leather jacket and informed everyone that she  _ might  _ be back by midnight. “One minute it seems we’re having fun and the next she’s all cold and bitter.”

“There’s a lot of layers to that well-oiled figure skating machine,” Sergeivich said, leaning back a bit in his chair. “You’re peeling away at them a lot more expertly than you might think.”

“Am I?” Renata scoffed. “Some days I wonder why the hell she does any of it… I know why I’m here, but she just seems almost miserable.”

“She may not show it very well, but she gets lonely,” Sergeivich twiddled his thumbs a bit. “Her constant need for human interaction and desperation has transcended into hatred for it.”

“Well, why doesn’t she skate single then? She’s crazy talented - she’d blow them all away.”

“Professionally speaking, I’m going to have to correct you there… the choices she made in her youth, what with the smoking and drinking and god knows what else have left her in a condition where she would be completely left behind on her own. She used to skate on her own when she was very little I heard - I’m not sure when they transitioned her to pairs, but I reckon a while ago.”

“You’re not her first trainer?”

“ No - trainers cycle past her the same way she cycles past skating partners . She’s not easy to teach, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“How come you’ve stayed?”

“It’d be cruel to say I pity her - no, she’s very independent, stubborn to the point that if she sets her course on something, she’ll burn the whole world down to get it. She may not be my handiwork through and through, but I’m proud of her - I want to harbor that confidence and drive it forward rather than shave it down to blind subordination.”

Renata picked at the scraps of food she had left on her plate, too lost in thought for consistent mechanical movement. “She’s never walked off the ice,” she finally said, a gentle but nonetheless potent wave of realization sweeping over her.

“She’s never walked off the ice,” Sergeivich repeated, nodding. “She’s come to that rink sore and sick, hungover and sleepless, depressed and enraged, and each time, it’s everything that her body and mind can offer and more.”

“What happened to her brother?” Renata asked out of the blue.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t know. I have a hunch that she was very close to him and that whatever happened must’ve both shaken her down to her foundation and hardened her like concrete.”

“Hm,” Renata looked out behind her at the beautiful view of the city. Snow sailed peacefully over the ever-glistening multi-toned neon lights and candle-like glow of countless little windows. She stole a glance at her watch - it was already quite late, and yet still, the city sat awake, witness to each of its nooks and crannies getting coated in powder.

Impending holidays were no reason to get relaxed, of course, and with how much Sergeivich drilled them, Renata felt like she was back in high school, cramming for final exams.

In a way, there very much was a final exam - that being the nationals in January, for which they’d finally started putting together programs. There was no longer time within a skating session to stand around and exchange unpleasantries about being a prude or a brute aymore. If they weren’t intently listening to the old man’s directions and commentary, they were skating their asses off, focused only on keeping each movement of their bodies error-free. 

They, however, mercifully, got half the day off on Christmas, because Sergeivich was a humble church-going man and said, in good humor of course, that he wanted to shed himself of the obscenities that Zemfira had showered his ears with this closing year. 

Renata hovered nervously outside the door to Zemfira’s room, clutching a neatly-wrapped box in her hands. Perhaps it wasn’t New Year’s yet, but now was as good a time as any, especially considering their freetime. She looked down at the box and wondered if the feisty figure skater was even worth it. Raising the back of her hand to knock, Renata pointedly decided that she was.

“What?” an ever-irritated voice called.

Renata, thinking nothing of it, walked in.

“Holy shit - I said ‘what’ not ‘come in’!” Zemfira jumped, hurriedly wrapping her bath towel around herself - judging by the drops of water rolling off her hair, she was just fresh out of the shower. 

“I mean, we’re both women, aren’t we…?” Renata drawled awkwardly, eyes seemingly moving completely out of their own accord - over the delicate and finely built curves of the brunette, tracing each contour and measuring each protruding vein on the neck, the symmetrical dip of the collarbone… what the  _ hell  _ was she doing? “Nice tattoo,” Renata quickly said as a cover-up.

“Thanks,” Zemfira covered the illustration of an airplane on her neck with a trembling palm. “What do you want?”

“Oh, Merry Christmas,” Renata extended the package.

Zemfira took it, eyes brimming with suspicion. “What are you, an American?”

“Just open it,” Renata rolled her eyes.

Nimble fingers tore gingerly at the packaging and then through the box. Inside was something fairly large out of a well-knitted material. Zemfira held it out in front of her to study it. The number 36 was boldly displayed on it, along with the last name - Litvinova. “What is it?”

“My old hockey jersey. Russia still got Olympic gold that year in Vancouver,” Renata said proudly.

“Oh, so this is what you wore when you got your head busted open?” Zemfira turned it this way and that - although it looked and smelled fresh, drops of dry blood were noticeable around one side of the shoulder and collar. “Why are you giving it to me? Isn’t it like… important to you?”

“Well, it is—it was. Was. I thought that since now I’m playing… well, participating?  _ Skating _ in your sport now, that I’d leave a bit of the old sport behind… maybe as like a little good luck charm, like, ‘hey, we’re gonna make it to the Olympics and win hopefully’. Sorry. Do you not want it?”

“No, no, I mean—yes, I… thank you. Don’t apologize either, what are you sorry for?” Zemfira asked, pulling the jersey on to try. With its intended purpose being to sit over layers of equipment and padding, it was insanely oversized on the lean figure skater, and went down to her thighs.

Renata watched with bemusement at how Zemfira practically swam in the thing, so much so that when she let the bath towel drop at her feet, she was still completely covered, aside from a little more exposure around the thighs than usual. The hockey player’s mouth did go dry for a second, her thoughts hitching on the question. 

“I got something for you, too, actually,” Zemfira started rummaging about her room. “Since you said you were more of an… auditory learner.” She handed her partner a thin, flat, but still festively decorated envelope. Renata carefully undid the wrapping paper to reveal a vinyl. “If you don’t have the time to read good books or watch good movies, you might as well have some good music in the background of… whatever keeps you so busy,” Zemfira’s eyes squinted ever-so slightly, the hint of a smile.

Renata ran a hand over the casing tenderly - it was brand new, but the listed jazz classics were dated as being from the 1920’s. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Zemfira put her hands on her hips, the movement enough to make the hockey jersey slip off one shoulder. “I really do mean don’t mention it - when I was out shopping with my parents, they said that however much they’re paying you is enough of a present, so I had to pretend to buy it for myself.”

Renata’s eyes flickered from the exposed bony shoulder to its proprietor, her mind only really processing that there was some kind of new, melodic warmth to Zemfira’s voice.


	7. glances

For the somehow uninitiated, New Year’s is a big deal in Russia. It’s a big deal all around the world, sure, but in Russia and other ex-Soviet countries, New Year’s is just as big, with the added boost of Christmas and Yuletide energy. So, it’s not surprising that a family with a sphere of influence and wealth as wide and frivolous as the Ramazanov’s would host a grandiose New Year’s party.

Naturally, Renata was invited, with space for a plus one that her husband took up without even asking upon mention of the event. Renata was used to being arm candy at business dinners and parties - she drew attention with her height and ability to muster up a classically stunning face of makeup, but nothing more than that. Not being in any business matters herself, she didn’t know anyone at these gatherings and was usually subjected to awkwardly tailing Leonid everywhere. But now, maybe even if she didn’t know every single person within the Ramazanov circle, she knew a handful more than she usually did out of Leonid’s, and that was already enough for her. For once,  _ she  _ was the requested guest, and she was going to let that be known.

She wore an iridescent black one-sleeved dress with a slit up to her thigh, accenting her height even further with sizable heels. The bulk of muscle that used to decorate her back and shoulders had slimmed down from the change in sport, so although she retained her towering impression, she felt especially feminine and comfortable in such a lacking-in-modesty outfit.

She got earnest compliments from the attendees that lingered at the entrance. The hockey player felt as if she was attending a pre-World Cup event as she had once in her team prime as half a dozen people minimum scanned her over and, with fascinated smiles, reached to shake her hand and make sure, “Oh, you’re Zemfira Talgatovna’s new skating partner!”

“You’ve gotten famous,” Leonid grumbled at her side as they moved across the floor.

“Are you jealous?” Renata asked, genuinely amused - she wasn’t going to let his attitude ruin one of the first luxurious nights out she’d had in a long time. They moved across the floor, ushered by curious individuals and nonsensical directions about where people that Renata actually knew were.

Somewhere in the middle, around what was usually their dinner table, that was now laden with a generous buffet of hors d’oeuvres, they finally stumbled upon Zemfira. Renata both could hardly fathom who she was looking at and was in complete, instant recognition of the young woman. The mid-length brown hair was pulled back in the same athletic little pony-tail, but the locks themselves were actually thoroughly washed for once, with no signs of hair gel or general presence of work and sweat. She wasn’t wearing a dress like many of the women at the party were, but rather a suit, and what looked to be a men’s suit at that, too, complete with an undone tie hanging around a popped-open collar. Actually far beyond than just the collar - the white dress shirt beneath the suit jacket was unbuttoned to a nearly scandalous extent: bare, stretched-taut skin making its presence boldly known. She wore a men’s watch, and, with the rigid, uninterested gaze with which she watched the room, the look might’ve been even more complete with a cigar. 

“Who the hell is that?” Leonid asked in a rather rude tone, grimacing.

“My partner,” Renata answered with even more defensiveness in her tone than she had anticipated. A respect had been forged for the short-fused brunette - that usually happens when you spend ten hours a day with your hands all over somebody, but looking at her now… there was a masculine chisel to her jaw that seemed ever-so wonderfully traceable, and yet an undeniable femininity to her expression and eyes, the curves of the shoulders and back… these were all things she just took to noticing because they’ve been in such close proximity, of course.  _ Of course _ . 

Zemfira looked up, having noticed that she was being scrutinized (although with her aesthetic, that’s to be expected at such an event) and got up from the table. She gave Renata a nod of acknowledgement and then fixed her gaze on Leonid. “So, you’re Litvinov?” she extended her hand for a shake.

“Dobrovsky, actually. But Renata is my wife, yes,” he eyed Zemfira’s hand warily before taking it, and seemed to flinch at how firmly she’d grasped it.

“Ah, so you’ve got different last names,” Zemfira twitched an eyebrow, letting an unplaceable electricity run through her voice. For a moment, Leonid’s eyes were trained on the piercing rather than the intense gaze of the woman. “Renata has told me next to nothing about you.”

“As she’s done so about yourself,” Leonid went to pull his hand away but Zemfira still held it steadily grasped, further studying him.

“Good to finally meet your husband,” Zemfira pointedly looked to Renata before finally letting go.

Leonid rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet awkwardly for a bit as the three stood in silence. “We’re going to go get something to drink,” he said finally, grabbing Renata’s arm.

Renata’s feet remained firmly planted to the ground. “You know I don’t drink,” she said.

“Okay, well—” he looked from his wife to Zemfira, and then back again. And with an “excuse me”, disappeared into the crowd.

“What a gentleman,” Zemfira snickered once she was sure he was out of earshot.

“He’s used to being the VIP at things like this,” Renata laughed along. With Leonid no longer hovering at her side, she felt like she could finally breathe. “I’m usually the plus one.”

“So you feel right at home here, then?” Renata noticed Zemfira’s eyes flicker to her collarbone as she spoke. 

“Well, you’re not the only Olympic athlete here, you know,” Renata reasoned.

“Oh, that’s right, a friend of my mother’s got bronze in women’s tennis back in the eighties,” Zemfira testily cocked her head to the side.

“You son of a—” Renata restrained herself, aware that this wasn’t just between them, the ice, and Sergeivich anymore. “What about you? You feel like a prisoner in your own home here yet?”

“Got me figured out there,” Zemfira absentmindedly picked a grape off of a finely polished silver platter near her and popped it into her mouth. “The free booze makes it all better, though. You really don’t drink?”

“Never,” Renata shook her head proudly. She used to - when she felt young and indestructible. That feeling seemed to have been absent for ages now. “It’s not good for the form.”

“I don’t know, I think I look alright,” Zemfira purposefully rubbed her hand from her neck to her clavicle, accentuating the lack of anything ‘extra’ there. “Come on, let me get you some wine at least - do you want me to water it down for you like it’s a church service?”

“I wonder what you’d say if I said yes,” Renata filed in behind her as Zemfira got up and started walking. 

“I’d call you a prude.”

“And I’d call you a brute for drinking like a man,” Renata retorted. The figure skater seemed to suddenly tense, a shoulder ticked upward slightly. A nerve had been struck that casual teasing had no business going down into. 

They wordlessly got drinks, Zemfira picking out a bottle of dark beer and handing Renata an empty shot glass, which was about to be met with protest before Zemfira poured what was only perhaps a few tablespoons of beer from her bottle. “So people don’t make fun of you,” the figure skater explained as they slinked away from the crowd and slipped into the comforting darkness of her father’s office. Here, there were no garlands of tassels, lights, and baubles hung around every surface, no little unnecessarily numerous New Year’s trees positioned around every corner.

“Sorry,” Renata said, out of habit, but also sincerely. 

“For what?”

“For calling you a man.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Zemfira took such a heavy swig from her bottle that Renata almost considered taking back her apology, at least as a joke. “I mean, look at me - if I dress like this at an event with these kinds of people, I’m bound to get some comments.”

“Still,” Renata took a polite sip from her shot glass, wincing a bit at the scent of alcohol. She wandered around the office some as Zemfira perched herself on her father’s desk and looked dazedly at the guests outside. A photograph caught her attention. It was grainy and a bit dusty, tucked away between books and seemed oddly casual for a family like the Ramazanovs. “So you do know how to smile,” Renata picked up the photo frame carefully and showed it to Zemfira. It was an unofficial portrait of the whole little family - no more than ten or eight years ago, all out on the ice. Talgat had his arm around his son’s shoulders, who was clearly trying to push his little sister away from him - a young Zemfira’s face was lit with an unrepeatable, warm smile of laughter, while Florida, the matriarch, had her mouth open in what was likely a shout of warning at the boy - as the woman was very firmly holding on to her daughter’s hand, and didn’t look at all comfortable in a pair of skates.

“Ramil was supposed to go to the Olympics,” Zemfira let the snarky comment fly past her, her face all-the-more somber.

“What happened?” Renata asked gently. She expected a snide remark, a biting request to get the fuck out, but no such thing came. The young woman sat in silence for a bit and then took a big, shaky breath.

“Mistimed a jump, slammed his head into the arena railing. Got up immediately, started laughing, saying he could do it again - the coach still insisted he go to a clinic. It turned out he had gotten some kind of internal fracture - had a seizure that evening and died in my arms. One in a thousand chance for cardiac arrest during a bout like that, and Ramil… well, with all the shit he always pulled, I’d always tell him he was one in a million,” Zemfira took another drink from her bottle and studied the label with fabricated sincerity to avoid making eye contact with Renata. “That’s why the rink downstairs doesn’t have a sideboard.”

“I’m sorry,” Renata put the photo back guiltily.

“Stop apologizing for everything.”  
“It’s a habit - at home, if anything happens, it’s my fault; whether it actually is or isn’t, Leonid never tries to find out while I’ve just gotten too tired to fight about it…” Renata drummed her fingernails against the glass - if this was going to be an hour of candor, then so be it.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would ever get married.”  
“You know, for a long time, neither could I, but then having next to no one alongside me after the head injury and well… then having the kid, it made me grateful to have _some_ one by my side.”

“Hm,” Zemfira hummed with her lips against the rim of the bottle, but not quite tipping it back. “Are you happy with him?”

“Leonid’s… a complicated man,” Renata rolled her shoulders. “We make do with our separate natures.”

“So, he’s a dick,” Zemfira nodded exaggeratedly. “When’s the last time you two had sex?”

Renata laughed nervously at the brashness of the question, but felt no real need to lie. “Our wedding night, I think?”

Zemfira choked on the drink she had halfway down her throat. After a thorough coughing fit, she roared with laughter. “Are you serious?”

“That’s probably the last time  _ I  _ ever had sex with him, to clarify,” Renata laughed, too, but the words tasted bitter, even if they felt heavy and true.

“I will never understand the psychology of married women,” Zemfira shook her head in wonder, hopping off the table.

“Well, once you have a kid and a set routine, it becomes… something you can live with.” Renata chewed the inside of her lip nervously. To unload so much at a party with so many people present, including Leonid himself… and yet, in the hush of this darkened office, she felt strangely safe alongside Zemfira, no matter if she received a puck to the face just recently or not. “Thank you for the vinyl, again, actually,” she said suddenly, feeling the urge to just say  _ some _ thing, to meet those watchful forest eyes again. 

“Does it make for a nice hanging on your wall?” Zemfira took on her usual taunting tone.

“I’m cultured enough to have a record player, you know,” Renata elbowed her gently on her way past and out the door where the two of them had been drifting.

Renata, with a figuratively lighter chest, had floated off to mingle with the rest of the crowd, free from the clutches of her plus one, at least for the foreseeable duration of the night - the penthouse was such a maze that she doubted Leonid would catch up with her until the very end of the night.

Zemfira lingered with her back to the door of her father’s office, now focusedly watching the roll of Renata’s pale, exposed shoulder. She was a powerful woman, no doubt there - and now, more earnestly, she was a powerful woman inside and out. The figure skater felt her breath hitch, watching Renata smile at somebody who looked to have complimented her.  _ She knew how that shoulder felt _ —her mind raced somewhere where she could barely follow. That shoulder had held her up time and time again, she’d clung to it in holds and choreographed moves… her throat itched and she swallowed whatever foam was left in the bottle, but it didn’t fade. How many shoulders like that had she placed her lips to? At those clubs she escaped to when her brother’s triumphant laughter and parents’ once-disapproving glances began to haunt her? How many?  _ None  _ \- it was always such a mechanical thing - spite and hormonal drunken stupor, but the finesse here… the genuinity, like the sudden urge to listen to slow and melancholy songs… 

“Have you lost your shit?” Zemfira said out loud to herself and angrily strode into the human mill, to lose any sudden and unfounded thoughts that bubbled about a married woman that was being paid to tolerate her. 

And yet the rest of the night was chockfull of lingering gazes without the other’s notice, and a subconscious, gravitational pull in each other’s general direction, even in the clamor of people that were becoming rowdier as they got more well-fed and even more drunk.

At the countdown to midnight, when all the lamps were turned off with only sparse bengal lights lighting up excited faces in the crowd, to watch the fireworks on the dark horizon of the wintery city, the figure skating pair found themselves nestled shoulder to shoulder. They exchanged ecstatic glances as the crowd counted down from ten, and at midnight sharp, when the darkness was a-glow in soft, distant splashes of gold and red and green, they cheered and clapped along with everyone else, turned to each other to wish a happy new year… the look of awed surprise on Renata’s face at Zemfira’s momentary broad and dimpled smile, and Zemfira’s entranced scan of those glistening silver eyes that were currently illuminated by showers of stars - their faces leaned closer and closer, close enough fo Zemfira to start lifting her chin, for Renata to cast her eyes down at those slightly parted lips… it seemed a moment out of some distant fantasy, frozen between the shouting of countless voices and the dancing luminescence of countless lights.


	8. family argument (part 1)

The next morning, Renata was interrupted from her half-hearted packing to visit home for a few days by a sharp knock on the door. She rose to her feet and opened it, surprised to see Zemfira’s face looking expectantly at her. “Good morning.”

The figure skater was  _ never  _ that polite. “What’s going on?” 

Zemfira slipped into the room without answering. “You’re still not packed yet?”

“I’m… I’m having a hard time deciding what I need,” Renata lied. But, ‘I’m having a hard time forcing myself to leave for longer than a weekend’ was a bout of honesty that she was not ready for so soon after the last one. She rubbed her forehead, gaze fixed on Zemfira who took a minute to study the room.

“I just wanted to give you this,” she finally extracted a small envelope from the back pocket of her jeans. “It’s a recording… Max took some videos of us skating, maybe your folks might want to see it. There’s also some extra tickets to go to nationals for them with.”

“Oh,” Renata stared rather blankly at the envelope. “Thanks.”

“What’s wrong? Isn’t your family going to come watch you at least?”

“They might,” Renata put the envelope down on a small table in the middle of the room. If she was lucky, maybe she’d forget to pack it.

“Well, they should come, I think, you’re… you’re worth watching.”

“Why are you being so weird?” Renata furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Weird? I’m not being weird.” 

“You’re being all chipper and—” the hockey player gestured vaguely in her partner’s direction.

“What, I’m not allowed to be supportive? I just came to give you the CD, that’s it.”

“Sorry, I just—what’s with the whole emphasis on family and…?”

“People’s families like watching their relatives do things sometimes,” Zemfira snapped and began to make a beeline for the door. “Didn’t think that you’d be so against that idea.”

Renata put her arm over the doorway, blocking the young woman’s path. They stood tense and silent - so still that if you strained your ears, you could hear the creak of each sore muscle. Zemfira’s eyes darted everywhere - the room, the hall, the floor, Renata’s hand, anywhere but not her eyes, and Renata, in contrast, zeroed in intensely, trying to crack whatever strange code had surfaced.

Zemfira pressed her chest against Renata’s arm and the blonde immediately gave way, surprising herself with how quickly she pulled her arm back and how the figure skater’s steps transitioned into a run down the hall. 

Renata, didn’t forget the CD, and in fact, perhaps it was for the better. Back at home, the nickname ‘witch’ for Zemfira was quickly dropped; the excitement with which Renata was ready to show the recordings to her mother and daughter dictated a newfound almost fondness for which insults had no place.

“And it’s acceptable for two women to skate together?” Alice asked that night over evening tea, when Leonid had returned from his ever-extended stay at ‘work’.

“Well, it’s just skating, isn’t it?” Dobrovsky studied his wife carefully.

“I mean, it does take cooperation,” Renata skimmed the subject. Historical notes of intensive scrutiny and prejudice weren’t necessary. “We are going to be competing together, after all.”

“Hold on a second - competing?” Leonid froze. “Like actual  _ pair  _ figure skating?”

“Yes!” Renata looked at him in bewilderment. “What do you think I meant when I introduced Zemfira as my partner?”

“I don’t know - maybe you were coaching her or something, I don’t know how all of your skating sports work! And so you’re like… lifting that little dyke and spinning her around and junk?”

One of Renata’s hands curled tightly into a fist. “Yes, that’s exactly what we do,” she answered with a serene, trained calmness.

Leonid shook his head in a ‘what has the world come to’ kind of way.

“The Ramazanovs were kind enough to provide tickets to invite you to come watch us at the upcoming competition,” Renata began after a brief pause.

“You’re planning to go out in front of the whole world like  _ that _ ?” Leonid grimaced.

“What’s your problem?” Renata exclaimed. “It’s a sport!”

“Yeah, a sport set to ballroom music and with your asses shaking in matching costumes,” he laughed dryly. 

“It’s a respectable form of physical art that I happen to enjoy quite a bit, actually, and that requires a good amount of effort—”

“Oh, shut up, woman - you say the same thing about hockey - what’s next? Artistic gymnastics?” 

“No, you fucking listen to me,” Renata lost her patience and got to her feet so abruptly that her chair scraped loudly against the kitchen floor. “I know you don’t take a single thing I do or say seriously after I was in and out of rehabilitation from Vancouver, but you need to get it through your  _ thick  _ head that what I’m doing right now isn’t just a cute little hobby that I’m toying with in between being your perfect god fearing wife - this is a  _ job _ . A job that I’m getting paid for enough that I do not need you or your little quips to dictate my life for me.”

At the mention of money, Leonid’s face grew red. “So that’s all you take me for, huh? Just the guy that paid for your rehab and your rent, right? You think you can just coast along here?  _ We  _ have an image to uphold and a child to raise properly - I’m the face of a regional company and I will not let my reputation be tarnished by your… your experimentation.” 

“My experimentation?” Renata’s voice grew shrill. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she begged for the forgiveness of her neighbors and her daughter for this. “All you’re ever worried about is your own sorry ass - you mope and groan about how I’m such an inconvenience to you because god forbid I have interests beyond playing housekeeper. I know you think that our wedding vows set everything in stone for you, but have you ever heard of some human fucking decency? I’ve smiled and waved at your opening ceremonies for nearly four fucking years now, I’ve been raising that kid to every  _ insane  _ orthodox standard your crazy family believes in - and you cannot even feign interest in what I do?” She felt angry tears rolling down her face and knew then that as soon as he’d noticed her puffy eyes, she’d lost whatever battle she tried to wage. 

Her mother stood up to comfort her and massage her stiffened shoulders. Leonid didn’t look guiltily at her, but he did look tired. “I’ll go to your retarded ice show,” he huffed, getting up. “I don’t want to hear any more of these hysterics ever again.”

Renata collapsed back into her seat at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. “Why did I ever agree to this?” she asked, choking back a sob.

“Well, maybe the Ramazanovs will understand if you say you need to focus on family and—” Alice began naively.

“No, I mean  _ this _ ,” Renata slammed her palms down on the table. “This whole… marriage and this whole family and business and… I should’ve just spent all I had then and been done. I would’ve been dirt poor but maybe I would’ve been happy.”

“Now, now, sunshine, you just haven’t been home enough,” Alice murmured. “I’ll talk to him, okay? Maybe you could go to counselling again? Remember how well you settled everything in Crimea?” 

“Yeah, that’s because I was high on pills for my postpartum,” Renata sniffed, pulling herself together. Nothing could match how unproductive whatever ‘counselling’ she’d been offered then was, not even this all-too familiar conversation.

“Right. Thanks, mom,” Renata managed half a smile. ‘Talking’ was a code-word for bribing with whatever was left of the old woman’s pension. The last time Alice had decided to ‘talk’ to Leonid, before that trip to Crimea, she was forced to move in with them for lack of funds to feed herself. Renata wondered what it would result in this time.

The young woman made her way to her daughter’s room. It was a wonder that Ulyana hadn’t awoken at all during the fight. Renata stroked the young girl’s soft, pink cheek. “I’m holding on for you,” she whispered. “Just for you. Your mom’s going to keep skating with Zema—” (that was the nickname they established for ease of childhood pronunciation) “—and she’s going to be able to take you and herself both far, far away…  _ far  _ away…” She shivered at the memory of Crimea. She had threatened divorce then, and Leonid had boldly and unapologetically said that if that was how it was going to be, then she’d never see her daughter again. If she hadn’t been high on those pills then, who knows where they would’ve all been now - back then she’d just stared at him in horror. Now, she wondered if maybe the whole thing was just a ruse to elaborate on that clause of the ever-imprisoning conditions of their marriage. “Yes, your mom’s going to make lots and lots of money and we’re going to get the  _ hell  _ out of here…” but Renata wasn’t thinking about the check that she’d received in the mail that morning with those comforting figures on it.

She thought instead of that dark, quiet office, and how for that moment, how open and vulnerable, yes, but  _ safe  _ she’d felt under the curious gaze of those brilliant green eyes… she thought of that melodic lull, and of fireworks… 


	9. turmoil (internal)

Renata sorely missed hockey about fifteen minutes into costume fitting. In that industry, you got fitted for uniforms once - those numbers got jotted down on a spreadsheet somewhere, and you forget all about it until  _ maybe  _ you gain an extra kilo or two around the waist over the off-season.

But  _ god,  _ the headache of whatever the hell was going on here - two old ladies scuttled around them with measuring tapes and samples of cloth, muttering little comments to themselves and always making parts absurdly tight first before figuring out that they should probably follow the measurements they just made.

“Do we have to be here while they stitch the whole thing?” Renata groaned as she finally let her arms down from holding them out for at least ten minutes straight.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll also have to come back and try each prototype, and then once we choose the music, Max might decide that they don’t fit thematically and we’ll be starting from scratch,” Zemfira explained in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Hold on,  _ we  _ have to choose the music?” Renata asked, astonished. “I thought it was just picked at random at the competition.”

“No,” Zemfira broke out in laughter. “What do you think we choreographed everything for? We have a tempo and a start and an end, and our music should fit accordingly. We might even tweak some moves to make them fit better with it, actually.”

“And what part of this is skating, exactly?” Renata shook her head tiredly as the old ladies returned from the cloth racks to poke them around some more.

“It’s not just all ice and snow, you know - it’s presentation, too,” Zemfira raised her chin and straightened her back to an exaggerated extent.

Renata scoffed. “Yeah, we’ve got a presentation already.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

But Zemfira  _ did  _ worry about it. How could she not? Ever since they started counting down the days to nationals, it was like Renata’s good-natured spirit was all but snuffed. Zemfira wouldn’t usually care. All other partners could, in instances of deviation from their behavior, to put it bluntly, go to hell, but here it bothered her to no discernible end. She didn’t even know why she cared now - and that bothered her, too. 

Once it actually came time to choose music, that was an entire battle of its own caliber. They started the process somewhere around six in the evening, hoping to be done by eight to get up early the next morning, but here they were, already well past eleven, still at each other’s throats.

“No one’s going to take us seriously without classical music,” Zemfira insisted.

“No one is going to take us seriously already! We might as well propel a unique image.”

“Unique images get fucking roasted by judges at competitions like this - we’re  _ not  _ skating to Freddy Mercury. American music is lowbrow anyway.”

“Lowbrow? Are you calling me lowbrow?”

“What’s with you all of a sudden, why are you taking everything so personally?”

“I’m not taking anything personally, I’m just trying to figure out why the music is such a big deal.”

“I already told you, didn’t I? Do you know what presentation means or did that definition get flung out of your brain after another hit with a puck?”

“What’s wrong with the impression of just good _classic_ music \- not classical, but just well-loved and recognizable?”

“It’s because—”

“Do you two have  _ any  _ idea what time it is?” Maxim Sergeivich stormed into the living room in his cotton, striped pajamas, his eyes uncharacteristically livid. “What the hell is going on with you two?”

Renata didn’t answer and instead walked out and briskly made her way to her room. Zemfira watched her go in a daze. She looked back at Sergeivich and scowled. “Don’t look at me, she’s the one that’s been acting weird!”

“And you haven’t been?” the old man crossed his arms. “You’re hot and you’re cold - first you act like you’re ready to conquer the world with her and then you’re insulting her like it’s the first day you met - pull it together!”

“I just don’t know what I’m pulling together anymore!” the brunette exclaimed, pulling her knees up to her chest. “I wake up some mornings wondering why I even bother.”

“You are not allowed to say that, not now,” Sergeivich shook his head furiously. “Look at how far you two have come! Do you remember what I told you the first day of training?”

“About how the judges are going to eat us alive?”

“About how you should be inspired! About how you should strive!” he kneeled down in front of her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I need your fighting spirit now more than ever, understand? Whatever kind of turmoil is going on up here, I need you to rise above it - I need you to be proud.”

“Do I have anything to be proud of?” she asked miserably, getting up. “Watch, we’re going to go to this competition and get our noses rubbed into the dirt…”

“Tell me something. Do you trust Renata?”

“What do you mean? She carries me on her shoulders for ten hours a day, I better trust her—”

“Do you think that Renata is the kind of person that would let you down so easily, that when push comes to shove, when the time comes to prove your achievements to the rest of the world, she’s going to walk off the ice?”

“I don’t know,” Zemfira said quietly.

“Look at me. Ramazanova, look at me. Yes you do. Do you know how desperate she is to prove herself? How far she’s willing to go? Of all people, you should know that better than anyone.”

Zemfira didn’t like the way her stomach began to churn. “Well, maybe I do, so…?”

“So? So, then - I need you to be proud of that - you two are  _ partners _ —” Sergeivich didn’t notice how Zemfira dug her fingernails into her palm at the word. “—and I need you to act like it.”

“Right,” she nodded. “I’m… I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Sleep well,” he nodded back at her, his look fixed and determined.

Waves of unprecedented emotion rolled over Zemfira as she made her way back to her room. What the hell was going on?

It helped however, that in trying to figure herself out, within that silence, Renata never tried to interrupt. The training that commenced following the squabble over music (which Max eventually just ended up choosing for them after witnessing the closest the two women had ever gotten to a physical fight when he tried tasking them with choosing it again), which consisted of constant repetition and rhythmic perfection of their routine, was completely silent. There was tension in that silence - Zemfira couldn’t help shooting glances Renata’s way whenever there was a moment, but they were never hostile. There was no detachment or distance with which Renata had begun to hold her, like there’d inevitably end up with previous partners around this time. There was just a laser-focused energy, one that Zemfira was thankful for. There were no more forced heart-to-hearts with Sergeivich either; in the absence of occasional ‘therapy’, she reckoned that Renata’s usual vigor was what was keeping her together.

Before either of them knew it, they were once again in formal clothes, this time nestled at a cozy table in a fine-dining restaurant, celebrating the send-off to nationals. With Leonid Dobrovsky present as an honorary guest once again, Zemfira wore a less hooliganistic outfit than New Year’s, just to not make matters worse for anyone. When they’d arrived at the restaurant, Renata awkwardly acknowledged that they matched, both choosing an open shoulder, black, long-sleeved style.

It took everything inside the hockey player’s mind to not tell Zemfira that she looked beautiful - it was an innocent compliment in theory, but the fury with which she’d argued with Leonid that one evening played itself back in front of her over and over, and she began to fear whatever emotions she might unlock within herself if she said something nice. 

Dinner was generally pleasant - an unsurprising observation. Leonid knew exactly who the Ramazanovs were - both Talgat and Florida had joined them that evening - and so he put on his best show for high society. In fact, he really must’ve had the intention of a literal show, because towards the end, he stood up, picked up his glass of champagne and announced: “I’m very proud of everything my wife does - and I thank you all here for the great services you’ve provided for her as an athlete and an individual… so, Renata. I’d like to announce here and now that once you and Ramazanova undoubtedly rake in all those gold medals, I’m taking two weeks off and taking us to Crimea!”

There was polite applause from Zemfira’s parents and from Sergeivich, oblivious to the behind the scenes of this little front. Renata put her head in her hands, feigning delighted embarrassment, trying out her best, fake laugh.  _ With whose money?  _ The insolent question sat anxiously in her throat.  _ With whose  _ fucking  _ money _ ?

She looked up finally and found that Zemfira was pointedly looking away from her, eyes cast down on the space of floor beside her, not doing anything to mask her somber mood. God, and right before their first competition… when they needed to at the very least tolerate each other the most, why did Zemfira look like she was about to revert to the snappiest, most distant version of herself? Why, god,  _ why _ ?

That following day would be the final run of the program before they’d pack up to go and skate in front of thousands. Zemfira didn’t have stage fright - she loved the thrill of waving hands and applause, so why was her stomach making somersaults now?

Well, she knew why. As she, out of boredom and dire need for some kind of physical occupation, drilled each and every warm-up she could recall since the age of three, she knew exactly why. “Fucking Crimea,” she whispered through gritted teeth as she went into an abnormally sloppy lunge. Why the hell did she think that anything,  _ anything  _ at all could’ve been a possibility? One night over an old photograph? Bullshit. There was such love in those gray ocean tide eyes when that sweet voice mentioned its speaker’s daughter—surely, when people say that they make things work, they mean it. Of course Renata can make things work - she could make anything work! What had she even been thinking? When the fuck had she become someone who gives herself hope? God… 

She jerked her head up to the sound of footsteps. Now  _ this  _ was an unexpected sight. “What are you doing here?” Zemfira skidded to a halt at the edge of the rink.

In front of her, in all her puffy and overdressed glory, stood Marta Petrovna, her face exactly as smug and patronizing as Zemfira remembered it. “Just wanted to see how my little Zemfirachka has been faring without me…”

“I’m not your fucking ‘Zemfirachka’ anymore,” the young woman emphatically spat on the ice.

“Careful, careful, honey - I’m still good friends with your parents, you know.”

That wasn’t a lie. Marta had a huge circle, consisting of a variety of people, all of which she’d had around for longer than Zemfira had been alive. 

“So, you’re skating with a lady now, huh?” the old woman squinted, giving off the impression that Zemfira’s nature was transparent. “Renata Muratovna, is that her name? She’s a hockey player, isn’t she?”

Zemfira remained silent. She wasn’t going to let this witch have any kindling to warm her brew with.

“I’m surprised that your trainer hasn’t transitioned you to ice dancing - I’m sure it’d be less embarrassing there to see two little girls hopping about.”

“Litvinova can skate,” Zemfira pushed the words out of herself as flatly as possible.

“Oh, I’m sure, but honey, a lot of kids at the public session at the Moscow arena ‘can skate’…” she waited for a moment, seeing if she lit the fuse yet. Marta had a way of not just getting under Zemfira’s skin but burrowing into the muscle. “Hm… well, with the nationals just this weekend, I’d thought I’d let you know that I believe your potential is being wasted on whatever circus tricks Maxim has been having you do. You deserve better direction than plodding around with some concussed nobody.”

“Get out of my fucking rink,” Zemfira snapped. She stepped off the ice and firmly pressed an index finger into the stout woman’s chest, letting her upwards of 170 centimeters tower over the woman who just barely reached a meter and a half. “I never want to see your face down here, and  _ definitely _ don’t want to hear anything about what I deserve. You have a big fucking mouth for someone who squandered any dignity I had for ice skating wih the talentless, heartless buffoons you called partners. And don’t you fucking  _ dare _ —”

“Zemfira!” It was Sergeivich - he cried out in warning and surprise as he approached the scene, but the young woman had started now - if this cretin in front of her decided to light the fuse, then she’d have to watch it burn right down to the end. 

“Don’t you fucking dare let that  _ fat _ , disgusting mouth of yours mention Renata Litvinova’s name. That woman is the most passionate, most supportive, reliable, soulful person I’ve ever had the pleasure of skating with - she’s worth  _ ten  _ of the hoodlums I can only assume you pulled off the fucking street for me - so your eyes better be fucking  _ glued  _ to your TV this weekend because we’re going to show you a routine you couldn’t even dream of.”

Marta fumbled with her multitudes of necklaces and scarves, blinked, and then hurried in the opposite direction, rudely knocking shoulders with Sergeivich on her way. Maxim didn’t look particularly angry, just speechless.

And—oh,  _ Jesus _ . And there had been Renata, innocently lacing up this whole time. She looked at her with almost unreadable eyes - was it awe? Fascination? Zemfira had never gotten good at figuring out positive emotions. “Don’t let me down,” the figure skater pointed at her, terrified by the hoarseness of her own voice, terrified that she’d, for once, meant every word she said.


	10. family argument (part 2)

It was one thing to have gotten used to the idea of holding on to a woman when skating out on their personal rink - Zemfira had comfortably adjusted to the minute height difference they shared and to the much gentler but still precise touch, but doing laps in matching tracksuits in a mill of other pairs made her realize just how truly out of place they looked. Sure, Renata wasn’t a short woman, but she wasn’t as tall as most of the male partners that’d turned out. The other pairs were like mountains and valleys with the tops of their heads. Square wide-fingered hands swallowed sections of nimble girls’ thighs whole. And those girls - with their pretty little faces, looking no older than sixteen in some cases looked as light as feathers in comparison to the boisterous force of their male counterparts. Renata and Zemfira, in contrast, looked to be evenly matched in more criteria than usual - every movement seemed to be of equal velocity and effort.

Zemfira also had the displeasure of seeing her old partner from Vancouver - Pavel. His almost stencil-cut square face and ever-present 5 o’clock sneered at her from the sidelines. “Do men scare you too much?” he asked as they all filed out of the arena to briefly go back to their hotels before the event began.

“They didn’t scare me enough,” Zemfira made an evocative gesture with her hand while Renata tried to drag her away. Pavel’s partner, too, didn’t seem thrilled with the exchange - she clung to him very closely, brown doe eyes looking fearfully in the direction of the brunette. “Hey, she’s cute!” Zemfira jeered. “You trying to get with that one too just ‘cause she holds your hand on Thursdays?”

“Knock it off,” Renata grabbed her partner by the scalp, which surprised Zemfira to no end.

“It’s just some friendly teasing,” she reasoned, wrenching herself free, although silently impressed by the hockey player’s steadfast grip. “Don’t take this whole thing so seriously. No one’s watching us. Yet, anyway.”

Renata didn’t say anything else for the duration of the drive back to the hotel, and Zemfira absolutely could not place the blonde’s anger. She rubbed the top of her head which now softly ached. Was it just nerves? Was she afraid to tarnish her image as a saintly, married woman or something?

Thinking about that made Zemfira nervous and she apathetically sauntered across the hotel floor, only half-listening to the pointers and reminders that Sergeivich had started grilling the two of them with in the car. 

“You’re not gonna stay and eat something?” Maxim asked, watching as the figure skater kept walking along without them. She hadn’t even realized that she had approached the elevators on autopilot instead of following the group.

“I’ll see you in the evening,” she said after looking over at Renata who stood squarely with her arms crossed and those… those  _ damnedly  _ perfect eyebrows furrowed. She wasn’t planning on sticking around for dinner with that kind of atmosphere floating between them - the only thing that would be palpable would be the tension. 

“Going up?” a timid voice asked when the doors slid shut.

“Is there any other way?” Zemfira raised her head a bit to see who had the audacity to engage in small-talk when she looked this miserly and her mouth made an inadvertent ‘o’ of surprise as she locked eyes with Pavel’s new partner. 

“I suppose not,” she offered a dazzling, trembling smile. “My name is Anna Valervna, I’m—”

“Pavel’s little bitch, I got that already,” Zemfira grumbled. “He got a message for me or something?”

“N-no, me and him aren’t  _ together  _ together, actually, um… my parents probably wouldn’t approve.”

“Your parents?” Zemfira thumbed her brow piercing idly. “How old are you?”

“W-well, I’m 18, so, really, I could do whatever I wanted technically, but they still kind of control me… sort of, you know they drove me here and…” the girl wrung her hands with the intensity of someone trying to wash blood off.

“I didn’t let my parents do anything for me when I was 18,” Zemfira eyed those hands curiously. So petite and tender, sprinkled with blink and you’ll miss them freckles… those doe eyes of hers were perhaps even too big but even so, the naive parting of her lips after every word. “I ran all about clubs and bars with my brother’s ID and got with every desperate chick thinking I was just some boy on spring break. Oh, were they surprised…”

Anna literally squeaked in astonishment. She looked up at Zemfira’s unwavering, hooded eyes. “You slept around with women?”

“Who said anything about sleeping?” Zemfira leaned against the wall of the elevator, fashioning a sardonic smile. “I kept them up all night.”

* * *

“God, have  _ you  _ seen my collar? This stupid costume has so many useless bits and pieces, you’d think we were going out to perform a Shakespeare play,” Renata rummaged through her things, leaving no stone unturned while Leonid laid on the couch, disinterestedly thumbing the beaten Bible that was left tucked away in one of the cabinets. “I texted Zemfira, maybe it ended up mixed in her bag somehow but… weren’t they packaged separately? It’s all right here, why would—you know maybe she's taking a break, I don’t think I’ll text her again… if it’s with her things, I’m sure she’ll bring it downstairs.”

“Your collar’s on the bar counter,” Leonid put the Bible down for a second, revealing that he’d rested his phone between the pages of the book to read the news. “You haven’t been able to put two sentences in without mentioning that little dyke.”

“You stop calling her that or I swear to god—” Renata abruptly locked her jaw shut and only threatened with her index finger. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and began again. “Look, I’m here now, about to perform in this sport I’ve never competed in - you can at least pretend that you’re half as proud of me about it as you were at dinner this past Thursday. What the hell is there in Crimea for us anyway?”

“Just a getaway - you’re spending too much time running around your little sport shenanigans. I thought it’d only be proper to reconnect as a family.”  
“We wouldn’t have to do any reconnecting if you didn’t stay out god knows where till nine in the evening - you’re such a fan of reminding me that Ulya’s your daughter too, but you’re all talk and no effort.”

“No effort? And you’re the mother of the year, right? Taking up the first ice show offered and leaving me and your mother only speeches about your hoodlum little partner - you don't even  _ live  _ at home anymore—”

“I’m starting to provide for myself now dammit and yeah, I’m taking the sacrifices I need to make sure that when I  _ am  _ home, I can make the most of it. And what are you prattling on about Zemfira for - what are you getting so riled about? If you opened your ears for just half a second when I’m trying to pour my heart out for you like an actual  _ spouse _ , you’d know she drives me up the fucking wall—”

“Oh, that’s just foreplay,” he waved his hand dismissively at her.

Renata froze. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me - I’ve tried to keep it under the rug about all your sapphic excursions—”

“My  _ what _ !?” Renata broke out in loud, humorless laughter. 

“Like I’m supposed to believe a woman like you isn’t fooling around in orgies in those locker rooms at your hockey games - I married you hoping we could put that life behind us, that you could use your title to make some kind of difference in the world than just getting your ass busted on the ice—” 

“Us? We!? Fucking  _ we _ ? This has been  _ your  _ show from start to finish and ever since I walked out of that fucking rehab center with a cheap fucking ring on my finger feeling like I did a service to my parents—I’ve been your  _ bitch _ , and you’re just angry that I’m getting my life back now and doing what god fucking made me to do and trust me - that purpose is more than just being dragged around by your lazy ass everywhere. Get the  _ fuck  _ out,” she pointed to the door.

“You’re getting hysterical again, just lower your voice before someone calls security - you’re  _ delusional _ .”

“I am more conscious of my thoughts and feelings than I ever have been for the last four years - get the fuck out of this room  _ now _ ,” she stormed up to him, face red and soft blonde curls draping partly over her face but well-trained muscle brandished and poised to drag him out by the collar if she had to. 

“It’s your little son of a bitch ‘partner’ that’s got you like this,” Leonid recoiled away from her, in what he would never admit to be fear, and got up, grabbing his keys off the table with a clumsy sweep of his arm. “She’s poisoning your life and your mind with her insolent, god damn… if Zemfira—” he shook his head as if he was trying to rearrange his thoughts into more coherent insults.

“She may not be a saint, but she reminded me that I don’t have to take shit from anybody anymore,” Renata inched closer to him, backing him towards the door. “Especially not from you.”

The sound of an open palm across the face echoed deafeningly through the luxurious suite. “You don’t want to take my shit anymore? You’re never seeing  _ my  _ daughter or  _ my  _ house ever again and you can go and whore around in the snow with your precious Ramazanovs as much as you want.”

“You’re going to  _ sorely  _ regret those words,” Renata shouted just as the door slammed shut. What a concert. What an absolute concert. It was long overdue, sure - overdue long before she ever thought she’d be figure skating and before they had talked about the first trip to Crimea. “Thanks for talking to him, mom,” Renata whispered, walking laps across the room to cool herself down. There were a couple hours left before they had to be downstairs, taking off for the first of their Olympic team-selective performance.

Oh, she’d make Leonid regret his words alright. She was going to make him choke on them until he turned purple and blue. 

Her mind drifted to brown mid length hair and a hard set, androgynous jaw, and whatever notes of challenge she’d heard in that melodic voice she’d come to recognize so well.. what had she even gotten angry about with her? Why did that figure skater  _ move  _ her—no,  _ shake  _ her so much? She pressed her palms into her forehead and stubbornly pushed out those foreign, discordant, but ever so sweetly surfacing thoughts and trained her mind on one objective. One objective only. That being - they’d have to look like two halves of a whole out there, against all surface level and internal odds.

For now, though, perhaps it’d be enough to gather costume parts and put them all in one place so that they’re ready for use at first notice.

Being this determined for Renata was a natural part of her life as a sportswoman - in fact, she felt as if she wasn’t doing enough - she missed those team huddles of encouragement and strategy - each and every head had to be in on the game, otherwise what was the point?

Zemfira, on the other hand, was the kind to push it all out of the way until the spotlight illuminated the ice beneath her and the pulse of the music surfaced from the speakers. So, it was certainly unusual when she indifferently rolled out of bed and started stretching out her shoulders a bit.

Little Anna, with her long black hair and ghosts of freckles lay dazed and breathless on the brilliant white sheets. Zemfira amusedly wondered if this counted as sabotage. But her smile quickly faded. The thrill of just blowing someone’s mind to kill time that would’ve otherwise been spent smoking at a time when she shouldn’t be had oddly lost its novelty. She wondered if Renata had noticed that the elevator hadn’t been empty when Zemfira walked in - and she frowned at the thought that maybe she had. Why did she care, though? This is what Zemfira Ramazanova  _ did _ , wasn’t it?

She looked at little Anna and then looked down at herself. The girl looked like she’d walked naked through a hurricane, but Zemfira had taken her own shirt off only out of politeness. She transitioned to stretching her lower back. Shirts… costumes… why was she thinking about the stupid routine? She went over and checked her phone:

**R:** have you seen my collar?

**R:** these rooms are so big i’m already losing everything .. 

**R:** ?

**R:** found it, sorry

No. She was thinking about  _ her. _ She laughed at herself for how brazenly she picked back up an old habit, thinking foolishly that it’d ever hit the same high… how poetic was it that this girl was even the polar opposite of what Renata was - shakily breathing, swollen-lipped exhibit of the precise antithesis of what Zemfira  _ craved _ . 

But how the hell could she? An independent woman with a child and a husband and a  _ life _ , which Zemfira  _ was  _ a part of, but only superficially. She shook her ahead, ashamed. She was ashamed. For the first time in her life, as she looked at the little form of markedly Russian emaciated muscle on those narrow little shoulders that rolled to reach and grab clothes off the floor, she felt bitterly ashamed.

What kind of hope could she ever even think of giving herself when she was just going to go out and do  _ this _ ?

“Thanks,” Anna said sheepishly on her way to the door.

“Welcome,” Zemfira answered, but her voice felt detached from where she stood, meddling with her thoughts. “Don’t let it get to you, Zemfira, don’t…” she exhaled sharply, straightening the covers on the bed, as soon as the door softly clicked shut behind the departee.

But god, it  _ was  _ getting to her, it was getting to her like crazy. She thought that it’d be an unbearable feeling that, if it chose to follow her out onto the ice, would spell disaster for her performance. That was until she walked out of her room, cringing at the classically feminine costume she had to bear with, and joined Renata in the walk down the hall to the elevator.

“Where’s Dobrovsky?” she asked, a bit confused - the husband had been tailing the hockey player like mad as of late, but here they were, already nearly down to the ground floor, and there was no indication that anyone was going to wait for him.

“He went home,” Renata said simply, straightening her shoulders out in an oddly prideful way. Zemfira couldn’t help but feel that their fast-paced march out to the car was filled with a new kind of lightness, and the space between them in the backseat felt not only comfortable, but itching to be filled.

Zemfira covered her mouth with one hand as if she was deep in thought when actually, she was smiling - so brightly, in fact, that a new kind of worry settled into her wondering, if everything suddenly felt  _ too  _ good to be true.


	11. let it be

Renata fiddled and fiddled with the collar on her costume, so much so that Zemfira began to slap her hands away, muttering about how she looked like a paranoiac. “You’re acting like this is your first time ever being out in front of a crowd.”

“Well, I’m used to wearing a bulky uniform and getting lost in a sea of people that look like everybody else - nobody watches  _ us _ , they watch the game and the puck,” Renata switched her tick over to the cuffs instead. This costume really was an uncomfortable mess - how did she deal with it when they did dress rehearsal back at the private rink? Did it look any more ridiculous than everyone else’s costumes?

“Hey,” Zemfira grabbed her wrist and didn’t let go this time - she was about to add another quippy remark but noticed the look of total fear in Renata’s eyes. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“Am I? It’s normal, I guess, I come to in about ten minutes of being out there…” 

“Sorry, ten—did you forget our program is only a minute and a half?”

Renata froze. She didn’t forget, she just couldn’t accept it or imagine it. Practice always lasted for hours and hours - if it was run once, it was run twice, and three times, and maybe two or four more - this here was  _ one  _ chance. No rematches, no time-outs… oh,  _ fuck.  _ She became so stiff with terror, she hardly realized that Sergeivich had walked up behind them to tell them that they’d be up as soon as this next pair finished, only snapping out of it when Zemfira began to furiously shake her.

“Get it together!” the brunette exclaimed. “Look at me.  _ Look  _ at me.”

Renata weakly tipped her eyes down. It’s like she always forgot the soulfulness of those hardset, furious eyes, and each time, looking so deep into them made her heart skip a beat.

“When we go out there… I want you to look only at me, understand? You get nervous - you look at me, you start getting ready to hurl onto the ice - look at me. Out there… you’re my anchor, and I’m your… I don’t know, this analogy’s retarded, but don’t let me down, Litvinova, dammit, and I’m not going to let you down.”

Renata felt her muscles relax some, even though her pulse quickened. It was just performance excitement, she told herself, watching as Zemfira’s brows drew together desperately awaiting a response, her veined throat bobbing with a nervous swallow. “I won’t,” she said finally and with a deep breath, managed a smile.

And if she thought her heart couldn’t race any faster before, it was absolutely soaring now, because Zemfira nodded, and gave her an earnest, dimpled grin - not one of patronism or sarcasm that would leave the coldness of her gaze untouched, but something bright and warm and genuine.

The muddled voice of the announcer broke over the loudspeakers with scores for the previous pair and the introduction of the pair to follow - the crowd cheered them on as they skated off to the center of the rink. As the lights around them dimmed and the glow directly on them brightened, hushed voices could be heard exchanging doubts: “Is that two women?”

Renata trembled from head to toe as she stood in position, waiting for the musical cue, however, as Zemfira nestled close in preparation for their opening move, she became absolutely still.

“You know, I really hate that the programs are split by days in competitions like this,” Zemfira complained as they stood at their respective hotel room doors, still deep into a frenzied conversation. “I’ve been doing this for years and I  _ still  _ hate it.”

“It does feel kind of incomplete, I guess,” Renata nodded. “If anything, I feel like the short program is kind of just a teaser for the real spectacle in the freestyle.”

“It’s like foreplay,” Zemfira shrugged.

“Foreplay?” Renata’s mouth went dry, sirens went off inside her brain. She fumbled with the keypad on her door, momentarily forgetting what the code was or even how many numbers it had.

“Yeah, foreplay,” Zemfira sounded entirely nonchalant, even laughing a little at her own joke. “Just feels weird getting warmed up for something you’ve just been  _ yearning  _ to get done and over with, but you gotta wait a whole night… you know?”

“I—” Renata couldn’t string together a sentence even if she wanted to. Was Zemfira kidding with her? Was she aware of anything she was saying? And why was  _ she  _ herself so bothered by it? Not…  _ bothered  _ maybe, just… “I’m gonna… you know, I’m—I’ll go. Good night.” And having gotten the door open on the third try, she quickly shut it behind her.

From its start to its finish, this day felt absolutely insane; the rollercoaster that Renata was riding seemed unable to exhaust its supply of loops and spirals and drops - and now, here was the raging finale, the ring of fire - when had it even come to be, she couldn’t even begin to fathom… she slid down into a sitting position, still at the door, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Her face burned red and hot but the sweat trickling down her back felt ice-cold. She  _ liked  _ Zemfira. And oh, no, not just hearty banter around coming from two different worlds, or some general professional respect for athleticism and skill. She  _ liked  _ Zemfira. 

She thought back to what Leonid had said, how feverishly she had denied his accusations, how ridiculous and insulting  _ his  _ comment about foreplay had sounded… and now? All this in  _ one  _ day? She held out her hands in front of her, tried to will them to stop shaking. She could  _ see  _ her veins pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, saw the soft glint of sweat on them… and then she thought about the lift in which she’d held Zemfira not even two hours ago, how they flew across that arena and how she could feel each muscle in that sinewy body align themselves in equilibrium, centered on just one of Renata’s palms , how effortless it’d felt and yet simultaneously charged with control and power… and her hands stopped shaking.

“So be it,” she laughed, looking up to the ceiling. “So be it, Leonid, you were right…” but guilt didn’t roll over her like it might’ve the year before. Instead she thought of how infinitely better off she’d be with that entrancing, wholesome smile.

She wasn’t sure if she’d see that smile ever again that next day. The rollercoaster of emotions, doubts, and tribulations continued. They jumped out of the rink in good spirits after their freestyle program, but upon hearing the announcement of the judges’ scores, Zemfira was more than miffed. Even Sergeivich who was generally their calm, collected voice of reason, spread his arms in disbelief. “That was  _ perfect _ ,” he shouted up at the judges’ booth.

The young brunette looked like she was going to lose it completely - she buried her fingers in her hair and did all but tear it, cursing unintelligibly through clenched teeth. “This sport is bullshit,” she slammed her hands down on the railing as the next pair went up. “Are they all blind? They must be! Motherfucker…” Her face twisted as if she was going to spit on the floor, but then thought better of it.

It’s not to say that Renata wasn’t distraught either, but having been conditioned into enduring disappointment silently, she could only watch blankly as the pair that went after them began their program. Something in her brain clicked, and she grabbed her partner by the shoulders, forcefully facing her towards the arena.

“What do you  _ want _ —” Zemfira weakly struggled against Renata’s grip, but then clicked as well as she watched the two skate. There was something off - it wasn’t a timidness of any sort or a lack of cooperation, but a lack of control, one that didn’t need a watchful, trained eye to notice. Every spin went for just half a turn too long, every jump just a few inches too high and just a bit too much debris from each subsequent landing. And then, it happened - the whole audience seemed to have held its breath, as if they saw it coming from miles away - initially, coming into his arms, the young woman seemed poised and perfect, the young man followed her momentum with focus and precision, and yet - she sailed into the air, and he didn’t catch her. She made more turns than expected, stayed in the atmosphere for a split second too long, his arms had already extended too far, and she crashed back onto him, sending them both sprawled on the surface of the rink.

They got up slowly, and the young man touched his cheek lightly, drawing away his fingers to reveal he’d received a sizable cut across his face. The young woman immediately began fussing, and hysterically gave the judges the indication that they were retiring.

There was now one less competitor in the line-up. Renata and Zemfira looked at each other, dazed and unblinking.

“Um… due to the newly redistributed order of participants and revised lists of requests for Olympic participation…” there was the sound of papers shuffling in the announcer’s booth, muffled voices from somewhere behind him. “With some alterations in scores after judge reconsideration, it’s our pleasure to announce that Zemfira Ramazanova and Renata Litvinova qualify for a spot on the Russian Olympic team.”

The crowd roared - whether in joy or bewilderment, neither of them cared. Renata swept Zemfira off her feet and haphazardly placed her on her shoulders.

“Let me down or I’m gonna make you look even worse than that guy,” Zemfira laughed, trying her best to not sink the back of her blades into Renata’s abdomen. Renata wouldn’t have cared regardless.

“We’re going to the Olympics!” she whooped, bouncing up and down.

“You’re going to the Olympics!” Sergeivich echoed with a bright smile of relief on his face. “Go on, get out of here - let’s celebrate!”

Renata still hadn't let Zemfira down and continued to carry her that way until they reached the lobby where the doorways were a bit too low for such extended height.

“What table do you want me to reserve for you?” Sergeivich asked as they poured into the hotel lobby now, along with the other competitors, gesturing to the adjacent restaurant.

“No fucking formalities,” Zemfira shook her head furiously. “We’re going out on the town!”

“We are?” Renata asked, amused.

“Yes we are! And you’re drinking, I don’t care how much you want to say it’ll ruin your figure…” 

“I was just going to say that this seems the perfect occasion for me to take it up,” Renata rubbed the back of her neck, but she could see Zemfira’s brow raise slightly at the fresh tone of boldness in her partner’s voice. She supposed that this is the closest to feeling indestructible she’d felt in a long time.

“Dress casual, though, for the love of god,” Zemfira gently shoved her onward.

They were back out of their hotel rooms in a flash, costumes and make-up shed, hair loose and unfurled - Zemfira in her staple, worn leather jacket and jeans, while Renata threw on a hoodie over her warm-up track suit.

They didn’t bother waiting on Sergeivich (if he’d been planning to join them in the first place) nor did they even grab a cab. In the nipping cold January night, they set off at a brisk walk down the street, laughing and watching their breath come out in puffs of steam.

At the first gas station they saw, they bought a pack of beer and continued on their stroll, opening the bottles with the hems of their shirts and toasting to increasingly mundane and unrelated things. Renata, not having let herself go like this in a bit, waivered in her steps a little, but surprisingly wasn’t wasted - just giddy and flushed.

They walked and drank around the streets until the city had seemed to have completely fallen asleep, and shouted up at any disgruntled residents that poked their heads out of their windows to ask them if they knew what hour of the night it was, if the women had decided to abruptly break out into song. Each time, after yelling some incomprehensible obscene comment, Zemfira would pull out her phone, which was dead, and pointedly exclaim that no, in fact, she didn’t.

“You know what I don’t understand,” Renata squinted at the crate of empty bottles she was now lugging around.

“Hm?”

“How come like… the judges couldn’t see how awesome we were - why’d it have to take two nuts-o’s crashing?”

“Cause they’re not used to seeing us—” Zemfira gestured sporadically between them. “Not used to seeing women. They let same-sex pairs in the Olympics now, but this fucking country… pretends to be so progressive, so… so—but they don’t want to see any of it. They say they’re okay with it, but it’s as long as they don’t see it.”

“Why wouldn’t they want to see us?”

“That’s what I always ask myself.”

“We were the best out there out of all of them - we put in the most work - how many hockey players do you think could say that they were selected to represent Russia on the Olympic figure skating team?”

“Only you…” Zemfira said a bit dreamily, lacking any subtlety in her eyes flicking to Renata’s lips. The blonde didn’t notice, or perhaps pretended not to. 

“Now they’ll have to look at us! What is there not to look at? We’re strong and we’re beautiful and we’re…” she wrapped one arm around Zemfira’s shoulders to steady herself across a patch of ice.

“Do you think anyone's looking at us now?” Zemfira asked as they neared the bright lights of their hotel again.

Renata brushed her hair out of her face, looked exaggeratedly up at the tall building, trying to count how many window lights were on. “I mean maybe  _ some _ body…”

“Good,” Zemfira said and pulled Renata’s collar to drag her into a kiss. She let go quickly, shaking her head, that old guilt returning.  _ That’s it, Zemfira, you’ve done it, you’ve ruined it, you’ve _ —

Renata had her hands around Zemfira’s face before a single thought could be finished or breath taken.

“This isn’t right,” Zemfira caught Renata’s hands that’d strayed into her hair.

“Oh, don’t you dare give me that—” Renata argued.

“Not out in the street,” Zemfira put a finger to Renata’s lips. Renata processed that for a second, and then nodded in agreement, and they both jogged through the front doors, laughing as their shoes squeaked on the tiled floor, as the receptionist looked at them, stunned and vaguely beginning to gesture at the mess of broken glass that’d been discarded right on the sidewalk.

Upstairs, they momentarily forgot whose room was whose, punching in wrong numbers blindly as the craving for another kiss escalated. Finally toppling into one room or the other, Zemfira began to furiously strip off her jacket and all else underneath. “Maybe the street would’ve been better, it’s so fucking hot…” she breathed, helping Renata out of the last of her clothes.

Zemfira knew every inch of Renata’s body already - and as was the case vice versa; that was their obligation as ice skating partners, to trust each other’s bodies unconditionally while balancing through incredible athletic feats… but to actually  _ see  _ those bodies now. To see every square inch of skin, to see the ghosts of each muscle fiber move in tandem beneath it, in their most pure and vulnerable form.

Renata’s enthusiasm even frustrated Zemfira somewhat because after these months of being lifted and dragged and spun, it was  _ her  _ turn to lead the show. “I’m in charge now,” Zemfira growled, shifting her attention away from her partner’s lips to her throat, to her collarbone. 

The hockey player seemed to be in compliance, but only  _ seemed  _ so - the command didn’t stop her from raking her fingers through Zemfira’s hair and guiding the figure skater along wherever she wanted. Zemfira tried to get control back somehow - her bites and hickeys were mercilessly rough, she dragged her fingernails across Renata’s back in a kind of possessive, passive protest, but it was no use.

Each thing that might’ve scared a younger, less experienced girl, only drove and excited this one -  _ how does she do it _ ? Zemfira asked herself as Renata pulled her back up. She wanted to stay down there, she’d been practically at the navel, she wanted for this show to  _ start _ , but those thoughtful silver eyes told her ‘not yet’. 

You could tell that Renata was drunk, but only physically so. When the woman went rather insistently for Zemfira’s throat, her breath felt ragged and hot, but every move she made was precise and purposeful. When her tongue flicked over the firm edge of Zemfira’s collarbone, now in turn, the figure skater tried to play the same guiding game, but got too distracted having found Renata’s hair to be just  _ impossibly  _ soft.

Before she knew it, Renata had gotten even further than Zemfira had, and only having gotten on her knees did she finally look up. Zemfira’s breath hitched in her throat as their eyes met. She thought about this moment for many a-night before, but never once had she imagined it like this. If anything was beginning to feel too good to be true, it was this, but somehow, there didn’t seem to be any end in sight. No horizon whatsoever, in fact. Only here and now, and those snowy afternoon eyes, that curve of the brow that clearly traced a question in the air. Zemfira leaned her head back, closing her eyes; so it’d happen like this, well—

Strong arms wrapped around her thighs and lifted her into the air, holding her for just a moment, enough to take two steps and then collectively crash onto the luxurious white-sheeted bed. Zemfira was at a final loss of words, of thought, of anything. She couldn’t remember the last time anything similar had happened - had it even ever? She couldn’t remember anything before  _ her  _ \- no sounds, no images - nothing. A tiny voice ran in her head, harshly whispering that this wasn’t like her. She shoved it away - no it just didn’t  _ seem  _ like her, but it was still her. It was all of her, all at once. She obediently spread her thighs when Renata beckoned for her to do so with the delicate but insistent pressure of her warm, warm hands and the thought that this had truly been her all along, so inexplicably craving attention and trust, would’ve brought tears to her eyes, had she not been caught unawares by the pitiful but undoubtedly wholy rhapsodic sounds that inadvertently escaped her. 


	12. monday

Renata woke up wondering if she was dreaming. The bright light that filtered through the window seemed so alien - in her nightly stupor, she became convinced that that was all that was real and ever would be - the dull, inky sky and dozing streets and restless shuffle and noise beside her within the tapered confines of this room, with its lavishly modern furniture and inexplicably chosen wall-length photograph prints and finely-framed paintings. Surely, what she was in now, a glowing room with strewn-about clothing and a buzzing phone somewhere on a counter too far away, was the dreamlike manifestation of some memory. The phone continued to hum against the surface on which it lay, but Renata wasn’t done drinking everything in yet. For one, she felt content - even if there was a light dizziness to her head from the untold amounts of cheap gas station beer, she woke up for once without the urgent need to leave, to start, to get lost, but instead to stay a moment longer. And as for the second, beside her was Zemfira.  
The brunette slept soundly, hair spread unceremoniously around her, eyelids slightly flickering at whatever dream she was watching. Her face held its usual idle seriousness, but there seemed to be an easiness to it rather than a persistent focus. Despite the fine curves and angles of each part of her, she looked even cute as she buried her nose in her pillow and furrowed her brow from the realization of light. She groaned softly, tried to hide her face entirely, but ultimately succumbed to consciousness. Dazzling green eyes looked at Renata with their usual curiosity, pupils dilating as they became aware whose entranced face they were reflecting. Zemfira gently smiled, almost bashfully, a happiness which made Renata’s heart flutter all over again. She wanted to continue watching her like this forever—god, that _fucking_ phone.  
She took her time getting up, lazily throwing on underwear and a T-shirt that she wasn’t even sure was hers (Zemfira was a devout believer in the appeal of oversized or otherwise baggy clothing, making Renata’s broad shoulders likely unopposed to their fitting) and shuffled over to the miniature kitchen.  
By that point the phone had stopped ringing and she took to just reading the flood of texts she’d gotten. All but a couple were from Sergeivich and they were mostly variations on ‘where are you?’ to which Renata calmly responded, ‘in the hotel’ and received a confirmative ‘ok’ and then ‘we should get going soon’. Renata left it at ‘ok’. The other text messages were… well, they certainly dampened the atmosphere of the morning. One was from Leonid saying that she had two weeks to pick up her things out of their flat before he tossed it all to the curb, and the other was her mother: “What happened, sunshine? Call me, please”. Renata pointedly decided that she was not going to call. At least not right now. She was in a good headspace for once, one that wasn’t filled to the brim with dread or worry or god knows what else.  
And then a knock on the door - so soft that it could’ve easily been mistaken for something getting lazily knocked over or a stir from the adjacent room. She carefully opened the door and came face-to-face with one of the figure skaters that competed against them that weekend - one that, as Renata recalled, actually qualified for the team alongside them, and, if memory served her, was the one skating with Zemfira’s old partner.   
Large brown eyes looked up at her in horror, and for a moment, she stood frozen, like a deer in the headlights. Those eyes pointedly scanned every inch of the scene that she could see - mostly starting and ending with Renata’s bruised neck.  
“Who is it?” Zemfira asked groggily from where she’d sat up, still not quite awake.  
Renata felt like everything moved in slow motion for a split second as she opened the door wider to let Zemfira see and a flash of recognition sparked in the figure skater’s face. “Oh, shit,” she exhaled sharply, looking away. The planet then began to spin nauseatingly fast.  
Zemfira wished that the door would’ve slammed shut and fallen off the hinges, wished that Renata’s face would’ve turned red and that a vein of grievance protruded on her forehead and that she’d start shouting loud enough for everyone in neighboring rooms to skip the front desk and immediately call the cops. Instead, Renata walked over to the kitchen bar counter and leaned over it, rubbing her face. She stood for a moment like that. Zemfira felt like she couldn’t breathe. There it was. Everything had been too good. Too intoxicatingly good to have ever been true, and here was the proof.   
“It’s not what you think,” Zemfira tried, hating how shattered her voice came out. So hoarse and so desperate that she wondered if it was even inteligible.   
“No?” Renata whispered.  
“I just…” Zemfira tried - she really, whole-heartedly tried, but nothing was coming out. What could she possibly say?  
“Right,” Renata sniffed and began walking around, gathering her belongings.  
Time was slipping through Zemfira’s fingers like an incomprehensibly fine-grained sand - Renata would walk out any moment, any moment and whatever ethereal bond had been forged, whatever cosmic connection had clustered, whatever string of fate that’d been tied, it would all get blown away to shit. What was she supposed to say - “No, you’re different”? “Sorry, I’d never do it to you”? “I promise I’ve changed since 48 hours ago”? “You told me you’re leaving your husband and now I’m ready to devote my entire reason for living to you”?  
Renata was at the door, hoodie draped over her arm, face motionless and unreadable aside from being pointedly dark. She waited a moment, then, clearing her throat, said as if they were unacquainted coworkers, “Sergeivich wrote - said that he wanted to leave soon. I’ll probably be in the lobby in fifteen, maybe twenty.”  
“Alright,” Zemfira nodded weakly.  
“See you,” Renata said, opening the door. Her hand squeezed the door frame for a second, her knuckles turned white with the strain as if she had been overcome with unbearable dizziness. Zemfira could swear she angled her head slightly in anticipation of some kind of response still. The young woman racked her brain, interrogated it, swore she’d shoot it clean out of her skull, but even her last sorrowful, ‘see you’ was heard only by the light click of the automatic lock.

If Sergeivich noticed that something was off about the two, he didn’t let on to it. The whole car ride back, he talked avidly about the Olympics and what kind of training regimes he’d have them on and what kind of ideas he already had about a new program.  
It was only when Renata pleadingly asked if she could live with the Ramazanovs until she found a flat for herself, that some suspicions arose. Talgat and Florida were under the impression that relations between Renata and Leonid couldn’t have been better, and although thoroughly surprised by the request, happily obliged, stating that the friendship forged between her and their daughter was a very uplifting thing for the family. The actual concern culminated of course, later that evening when Zemfira had come into her father’s office, unrecognizably and tenderly hugged him around the neck and said, “I don’t know if I want to skate anymore.” Talgat had called in Florida then who forcibly examined Zemfira to see if she was on any kind of psychostimulants, and were earnestly surprised when she came up clean. “I’m going to the Olympics,” she assured them in a quiet, half-hearted voice. “But after that, I think I’m done.” And they sent her off to bed, telling her to take some fever medication if she was feeling out of it but following her out the office door with a gaze of pure astonishment.  
Sergeivich caught on a few days into starting skating again. The two women laced up on opposite sides of the bench, warmed up on opposite sides of the rink, and stood back to back rather than side to side whenever possible during ‘lectures’. There was a dangerous wobble to each lift now, an uncertainty to each approach of a jump, a lack of gusto in each spin.  
“What happened here?” he asked disappointedly after a particularly lack-luster run of a new combination of moves. Each of them moved like a well-oiled machine, the surface-level execution technically passable, but there was no performance anymore - whether that’d be an argumentative or a cooperative endeavor. Neither of them said anything. That had become the norm. Sergeivich had taken it as determination and focus on the common goal, but having occasionally sat down for dinner with the company, and hearing that same, poignant silence, he knew that something was the matter. “I guess I have to light a fire under your asses like I did when we first started, huh?” he crossed his arms. “Alright… you remember what I told you then, I hope - about how the public, and especially the judges, are going to be merciless with same-sex pairs. You two are going to be the first in Russian and Olympic history, but that’s not enough, is it? Not for the judges, and clearly, not for you either.  
“In pair figure skating, like it is in the traditional life of many others, they say that there is no greater union than that between a man and a woman. That the close cooperation between two men or two women can never compare, can never come close in tenderness or dynamic caliber. But what do I have standing in front of me right now?” he spread his arms wide, as if he was holding each of them in his hands. “The very antithesis of that. We have officially declared that that mindset is a load of bullshit. But that's not enough, is it? We’ve given the people a theorem and now they want a proof. We’ve given them a blueprint, and now they want a prototype… do either of you know what a throw quad salchow is?”


	13. trust

Everything seemed to be wrapping itself into a disgustingly poetic loop. At least perhaps, with how this training and preparation was going. In the year prior, it’d been Renata stumbling around, draped in ice packs and eternally sore, but in their year now… 

The thing was, there was nothing purely mechanical about the move that Sergeivich introduced. It was a very charged and highly precise movement that muscle memory could no longer justify. Renata had to  _ throw  _ Zemfira out with enough force to make four rotations and Zemfira had to follow it through with a flawless landing on one foot.

At first, Renata was simply fearful. She may have been in turmoil over… well, she didn’t want to voice it in any case, but at the end of the day, she didn’t want to hurt Zemfira. She threw her out warily at first, never enough to even do two rotations, and the figure skater would stick the landing effortlessly and lazily, knowing full well that Sergeivich was going to stop them and tell Renata to “throw that girl like a goddamn discus” and make them try it again.

And when she did try it again, she’d always hold her breath - watching her spin out, and then… inevitably something would go wrong. Each successful attempt was a less and less passable fluke. She’d catch her toe pick and tip forward, she’d land on the flat edge of the blade and her foot would slip out from under her, she’d land too deep into the inside of the blade and painfully twist into the turn to such an extent that she’d fall over or just become unable to continue any maneuvers that followed after.

Each time it happened, Renata felt horrible - she was the one throwing, after all, but Zemfira stubbornly pressed on until she could barely glide on that foot, and Sergeivich would exasperatedly call it a day. Time was ticking, however, and it was just this one move - this one move that was a complete and utter hemorrhoid.

Renata walked in on Zemfira late one night, tying an ice pack to her ankle with clumsy fingers and puffy eyes. “Do you want me to help?” the hockey player asked, lightly distraught.

“Please,” Zemfira answered, not even trying to hide the sob that followed.

Renata sat her down, began undoing and redoing the bandage. “You know, my daughter once rolled down the stairs at… at her father’s parents’ summer house…” she talked softly and coolly, trying not to think of how tears streamed down her partner’s face above her. “She was so distraught, and you know, for good reason - she busted her cheek pretty bad… but that evening before bed she looked at me and said, ‘Am I pretty?’ and I pet her hair and said, ‘Of course you’re pretty, you’re the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen’ but then she seemed to get upset and said: ‘Mommy, why don’t you look at me? I fell, now you don’t look at me’ and I…” Renata paused, making sure that she didn’t squeeze the slim, sore joint too tightly as she did the final few wrappings. “...and I told her, ‘You know how it hurt when you fell? Every time I look at you with that bruise you’ve got there, it hurts.’”

“Every time?” Zemfira asked, hoarsely.

Renata didn’t say anything else and got up to grab a glass of water, as per her initial intention. She could feel Zemfira’s eyes on her, could imagine how they glistened green and gold in the dim kitchen light. She couldn’t bring herself to look in her direction, not even a bit. It was no longer anger - if it’d ever been that even, and it felt too egotistical to have called it disappointment… she felt entirely forlorn, to put it most accurately. They’d never promised each other anything, never gave a single vow, and yet… there seemed to be one grandiose, bitter untruth to it all that burned her throat worse than the rare bout of alcohol, and with none of the subsequent invigoration.

“I don’t want you to do that move,” Renata whispered. 

Zemfira didn’t answer. She sat still and silent, only breathing shallowly every now and again as unspoken emotions rolled onto her like soft waves on the coast. There was something too familiar about this darkness, something too comforting. Something that brought up… no, it couldn’t have been. There’s no chance of that, that’s been made clear. “I trust you,” Zemfira whispered finally. It was the peak of something bigger, something that she wanted to unload so desperately and in full that she practically wanted to vomit before she even said anything. But once again, she couldn’t. It was like something held a massive chain around her voice and each time it tried to break free, whoever or whatever was on the other end of that chain yanked back as hard as possible and she was left in silence, tasting only sorrow and bile.

Weekends at the Ramazanov’s were... interesting. Not in the eventful sense, but rather curious in that they, like many other components of their lives as of late, were silent. Renata hadn’t thought much of it when she had been out for the day looking at cheap flats and calling lawyers for estimates, thinking that she just caught a quiet moment. But no, it was deafeningly soundless. Renata seemed to recall that on some weekday evenings prior to their departure for nationals, there’d at least be the idle hum of some jazz or rock and roll vinyl from Zemfira’s room, even on the stillest of days, but that too was an unseen phenomenon now. When she sat in the evenings texting or calling her frantic, still very much confused mother, she expected any second to hear that businesslike tone somewhere in the hall - “I’m heading out - don’t wait,” and then hear the rustle of that leather jacket torn off the rack, but that, too, never came.

It began to confuse and concern her to such a degree that by the time vaguely similar puzzle pieces became visible on the board, it seemed too late to do anything.

“I told my parents this, so now I’m telling you two, too,” Zemfira said after one slightly more encouraging practice. She landed the jump perfectly twice, and although sloppily once in context of the whole program, they actually finished out the whole thing for the first time. “The Olympics will be the last time I’m skating.”

“What?” Sergeivich and Renata exclaimed in unison.

“But you… you’re such a fighter… what in god’s name happened to you that you’re this desperate to let it all go now?” their trainer asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m not desperate,” Zemfira snapped and something of her old fire sparked in her eyes for a split second. “I’m just tired. I’ve been doing this my whole life and I’m starting to realize that I have no idea why. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try - I’m gonna skate my ass off in Sochi; I’m not going to let Litvinova down.”

Renata felt as if she was being spoken to as if she wasn’t even there - this both slightly vexed her, but also spiked her confusion and light intrigue. Was Zemfira trying to be indirect or heartless? “Well, that’s… that’s one idea why, isn’t it?” Sergeivich looked from the hockey player to the figure skater and then back again.


	14. sochi

_ The Russian Olympic figure skating team promises to be a successful one this year, despite its fair share of unique features - namely, the first ever same-sex pair - Zemfira Ramazanova and Renata Litvinova, will be making an appearance at this international event - something that will no doubt be jotted down in history books all around the world. It’s also interesting to note that the two pairs chosen to represent Russia for this year’s Olympics, both consist of individuals who have once been partners, that being the aforementioned Ramazanova, and 25 year-old Pavel Knyazev, and two relative newcomers, Renata Litvinova, a retired women’s hockey player who saw great success at the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver and Anna Valervna, who at 18 is making impressive strides in the sport.  _

_ Upon arrival in Sochi, the pairs were swarmed with journalists - most, of course, preoccupied with the novelty of the two women, but both Ramazanova and Litvinova refused to comment. In fact, a journalist at the scene told our correspondent at iSkate that “...Zemfira was very aggressive - she rudely pushed away cameras and made obscene gestures to divert their attention.”  _

_ Brief interviews with Knyazev and Valervna did commence, however.  _

**_How do you feel about sharing the team spot with an odd pair such as Ramazanova and Litvinova?_ **

**_K:_ ** _ Well, it’s a bit surprising. I didn’t think that I’d see Zemfira on the ice again after Vancouver. But they did skate well at nationals so I’m not really worried about them. _

**_V:_ ** _ I think it’s very exciting! We’re part of history, getting to skate alongside them… they really rather fascinate me, actually, and I think the four of us can wholeheartedly uphold our country’s national spirit! _

Sochi is a beautiful city, not just by Russian standards. Even in the context of the full, leafless weather, at night, posh and marvelously architectured buildings glowed in a flow of iridescent lights and during the day, the towering mountains made everything feel both intimately cozy for such an urban city and somehow secluded and out of this world. On one side was the mountain range, on the other, the ever-billowing sea, and in between were the restless minds of two young women intermediately wandering the streets even though by all fashions, they should be fawned celebrities living it up within the Olympic dorms.

For such a high-class international event, for every wild-eyed reporter that asked each of them what it was like to be the first same-sex figure skating pair to have reached the Olympics, there were none of the expected overly-intriguing answers or sport enthusiasm. Renata and Zemfira barely acted like a pair at all. As soon as they weren’t expected out in front of the crowd, the figure skater would disappear into the city, alone, while Renata caught up with her old hockey teammates.

“What’s it like trading your stick for a pair of toe picks?” Ksenya, a good acquaintance of Renata’s, asked as the group of them stood around a small trashcan bonfire they started in the courtyard. Security had tried to protest, but what kind of protest is there, really, against half a dozen peak-condition, well-muscled women?

“It’s been alright. Well worth the money,” Renata said, shrugging. Her old teammates leaned in, waiting to hear more but the blonde didn’t make any indication of there being more to say.

“Oh, come on, surely you have a saga to tell about it. I heard that that Ramazanova girl is a real bitch.”

“No,” Renata cut in quickly. “Yes, she’s bold of course and… she doesn’t aim to please everyone, very stubborn, hardset, but…” the woman caught herself trailing off into so many specifics she hardly fathomed she could actually fluently voice so many.

“Just doing it for the money, then?” Ksenya asked, a bit disappointed that there’d be no intense gossip tonight. “I watched the replay of your short program from today and you really know your stuff, girl.”

“Practice, like anything,” Renata offered a half-smile. “Our scores weren’t great, though. ‘Too robotic’, all the commentators said.”

“I don’t understand anything in figure skating,” another woman jutted in. “It’s enough that y’all drag and lift each other and jump and spin… you’ve got all these dance elements - hardly seems a sport at all.”

“Well, you better watch tomorrow’s freestyle program then,” a chord of pride sounded in Renata’s voice. “We’ve got a move that’ll—” but she quickly became quiet. She didn’t want her to do that move. She thought of the heartbreaking limp that could be heard in what was once her partner’s confident, even footsteps.  _ Why would you think of that now? Who cares? What— _

“What move?”

“Oh, nothing, I just wanted to say that… it takes a lot of trust with figure skating. It’s one thing to pass a puck around and knock yanks to the wall, but it’s another when you’re holding someone balanced on one hand, you’ve got your other arm extended in this perfect curve, and you just have to hold that like a statue without tearing each other apart - you become melded together, kind of. Not that a team isn’t a unit, I still love hockey and all, I just—”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were in love with her,” Ksenya laughed.

Love.

That word haunted her for the rest of the night. So much so, in fact, that instead of heading back to her dorm and going to sleep, as was needed, she sneaked over the gate and went hunting for her ever-wandering partner. 

She checked every pub and club she could notice, worriedly scanned the dingiest of alleys; she wasn’t even sure what the purpose was - why go looking for her now, why bother? What was she going to do when she found her?

Find her she did, however, completely accidentally, on her way back, at a small park. The brunette stood on a mound of snow, idly kicking it as she smoked.  _ Smoked _ . That was something Renata hadn’t seen her do in a long time. “Thought you’d kicked the habit,” she said, making Zemfira jump.

“It’s not gonna matter anymore after tomorrow,” Zemfira answered, her speech sounding labored and heavy, thoroughly laced with tobacco and nicotine. She squinted through the dark. Again. Again it was just the two of them. Again it was dark.

“You’re saying that like you’re going to hang yourself,” Renata tried smiling at the grim joke, tried testing the waters of teasing each other again, but it felt forced and foreign.

“I might.”

“Oh god, don’t say that. Please.”

“What’s it to you, huh?” Zemfira put on her teenage-ish tone, flicking the ashes off the cigarette for emphasis. 

“You’re my partner…” Renata said with an unintentionally apparent softness.

“Yeah, well, after tomorrow, I won’t be anymore. Like I said, I’m done. If you’re crazy about the sport now or whatever, you can find yourself another partner. Dad’s gonna give you your last paycheck and you can go and rescue your kid or whatever and tell them what a bitch you had to deal with for four months to get there.”

“Is it really just like that?” the question tore out of her despite her best efforts to resist. It’d been a thought, a prompt for dwelling on, for her and her only.

“What?” Zemfira let out a stream of smoke - long and persistent. “Look, I don’t know what you came here for.”

“I don’t either.”

“Then go home—or back to the dorms or whatever.”

“I don’t want to go alone,” Renata said suddenly. “I want to go with you.”

Zemfira threw her cigarette onto the snow, watched the heat from it quickly ebb from the sudden contact with such a cold surface. She spat on the ground with an impressive velocity, clearing her mouth from the overabundance of chemicals, licking her teeth with a grimace afterwards. Then she looked up at the sky and rocked back and forth a bit. She wanted to steal a glance at  _ her  _ but wouldn’t—couldn’t, couldn’t let her see just how close she was to tears.  _ What the fuck is wrong with you?  _ she shook her head, making her bangs fall in her face to help shield any hint of emotion. But the bangs alone couldn’t do it. God, was it hard. It was harder than that retarded jump, it was harder than trying to come up with something to say… she sniffed, wiped her nose with her sleeve and only then, finally looked up at Renata, facing her in full. “I’m sorry.”

Renata was overcome with something like an odd strand of grief. Something that sickeningly reminded her of postpartum, of having something new and inexplicable and unpredictable and so far out of your control and yet so tremendously dependent abruptly appear. “Let’s just go back,” she swallowed the knot in her throat. She couldn’t watch those summer eyes glisten like that, she  _ couldn’t,  _ it hurt, it hurt like  _ hell— _ but why? When everything had already been spelled out?

_ But is it really  _ just  _ like that _ , Renata asked herself again. Was it really  _ just _ the quiet click of the neighboring door after a kind-eyed parting glance? 

Was it really  _ just  _ a frustrated sigh with which, her eyes cast down, she asked for her to come with her? __

How either of them slept, remains a wonder.


	15. only for you

The chain had loosened. It had. The great, faceless chain-wielder had succumbed to nicotine and negative ten degrees, had succumbed to seeing lips that were just on the verge of turning blue, and had unfurled the chain far enough that now, if she ran out far enough, Zemfira could gain enough momentum to break it.

And god, how she wanted to. She had to - how couldn’t she? If not now, then when? If not here, then where? But no moment seemed fitting - everything was too loud and too much - Sergeivich was talking in their ears here, they had to rush through a breathless warm up there, but  _ fuck _ , her grip was loosening, her voice ever so distant, like they still stood out there in that snowy park, freezing until they could hardly whisper a farewell, let alone the truth… no, no  _ no— _

And here were more cameras, and there was another crowd, and constant milling and milling - not a moment alone, not a moment to take a breath, but she needed it  _ now -  _ it had to happen  _ now _ . 

“We’re not doing that move,” Renata told Sergeivich, evenly and briskly as the pair prior to them were wrapping up. 

“What? Are you serious?” the old man put a hand to his forehead to steady himself. “What, even—”

And here was the announcer, here were their names - it wasn’t sand slipping through her fingers anymore, it was water—”Renata!” Zemfira dragged her by the sleeve right as they were expected to go up; they were overdue now, honestly, there were cameras,  _ oh,  _ to hell with it all. “I don’t want you to find another partner.” Renata furrowed her brow in confusion. She couldn’t tell where this was going - the conversation referenced seemed to break into her mind only as if through some kind of fog. “I am  _ so  _ scared and I was so scared then, and I am still scared now and maybe I always will be but that’s not something I can… oh, god dammit—we’re doing that move, Litvinova!” 

Renata’s brow was still knitted in confusion, but perhaps more so in bewilderment. Could it really be that—even if it’d seemed… 

People around them rushed them along, ushering them onto the arena. Sergeivich shouted some kind of nonsense encouragement, a desperate reporter had reached a hand too far out and there was the dull clatter of equipment. The lights around the stands dimmed, the two women pressed together into their starting position. “I love you,” Zemfira breathed. 

The click of the spotlight above was akin to a gunshot. The music swelled.

There was an unseen energy that sparkled like the countless stars of the Milky Way - that cloud, that light haze - it seems amorphous, whole, but within it there was so much. It’s so many of those tiny, tiny, mysterious things, these stars - some glow in blue and some in yellow, some dwarf others and others dwarf others still, but all are impossibly powerful, impossibly bright. And all of them are held together in this cloud, by each other - no matter how immeasurably distant they seem in broad observation of each other…

And there was not a single tremble of the hand as Renata launched Zemfira away from her - watched not in fear, but in awe and enchantment as her partner spun, spun, and then landed - loudly, abruptly, snow flying and yet - they kept on, not missing a beat, not one, so much so that they were almost surprised when the music stopped, right as they did, when the lights evened out just as they could finally feel the coolness of the rink on their adrenally-ignited skin.

They were somewhere else, their hands clasped together, so determinedly staring into each other’s eyes, heartbeats in their throats, and unmatched human joy painted in the brightest of colors across their faces. “Really?” Renata asked, her voice nigh on disbelieving. This should’ve felt too good to be true as well, but it didn’t - it felt raw and pure and practically scalding to the touch—but was she sure she wasn’t dreaming some collateral dream, either having fallen over in the snow or having pondered on something a little too long in that empty office on the eve of the coming year… 

“You - and  _ only  _ you,” Zemfira nodded vigorously, lacing their fingers tightly. “And I know I don’t deserve you or anything that… I—if you want, I can never come back here again or if you want I can keep skating until my fucking legs fall off, I’ll—anything you want, I—”

“I just want  _ you _ .” 


End file.
